Operation Love Match

Prologue

Some believe I come here for the patients.

But in truth, I enjoy haunting doctors more.

Especially their inferiors and protégés.

Welcome to medicine, students.

Trust me for the true story of how to survive.

Your most beautiful and beneficent narrator,

THANATOS

If all goes according to plan, the surly doctor barking orders into his computer will turn on his wicked ways, fall head over heels in love with me, and give me everything I’ve ever wanted.

Or so I will lead the House of Medicine to believe.

I peek my head around the residents’ room doorway, ignoring the signature sting of disinfectant. Dead, printed memes crumble with the wind, littering the floors, while chipping brown paint peels off in chunks.

Swallowing hard, I force myself to just breathe.

I’m smart enough to get into medical school. Disciplined enough to survive the Sisyphean order of third-year rotations. Crafty enough to dream up a plan so ingenious that nobody else would have attempted it before me.

So tonight, I need to be captivating enough to get even a despicable loner to fall in love.

Temporarily.

Theatrically.

Through innocent, yet irreparable means.

In a line in front of me, doctors.

In a broken heart inside of me, courage (or what’s left of it).

It can be done, I convince myself, if I just believe it will. I know exactly who the rumors paint this man to be, and that’s all I need.

Irreparably evil. Demonically sullen. Antisocial to the point of psychiatric speculation.

And I can convince him to love me. My entire reputation depends on it.

I knew he couldn’t be anyone in my future specialty (OB/GYN). And my roommate, Hyacinth, stalked all my prospects to make sure they weren’t married, fathers, or in any kind of relationship.1

So we decided it has to be someone a little pathetic. Someone who’d agree to an idea as harebrained as this. Someone who has nothing to lose if it all goes south.

And someone I suspect is a little lonely, if going about this in an honest, practical fashion. Someone I can charm.

This works in books, right?

I just need to be nice. Friendly. Convincing.

To scare David off for good—and it needs to be for good, because I’ve suffered enough—I need to trap the most formidable presence in the hospital.

So, this will work. I will manifest it so.

I spot his onyx-black hair, cascading in waves around his head.

My friends thought his father must own the hospital.

The nurses said he was more trust-fund nepo baby than human.

The P.A.s thought he possessed some kind of legendary skill set, repressed only by his own temper tantrums. Even the residents said he must have fallen from grace from some Babylonian ivory tower, discarded from The Hub to Rinky Dink to bless us plebeians with his malice.

When Esther looked him up, he had eighty first-author publications.

Eighty. First-author. Publications.

In all four grueling years of undergrad, I dedicated an inordinate amount of time to being the primary workhorse behind one measly paper—earning myself the illustrious title of first author.

In medical school, I worked myself to the bone doing two maternal mortality projects in rural areas: a depressing, laborious endeavor that nabbed me all of two more publications.

And this morose devil pulled that off eighty times.

The residents claim he assigns students to 24-hour shifts at will. The students speculate he really is a mercurial fiend from hell. Even the patients don’t know if he has a real name; they only know him by his nickname.

Dr. Demon.

Maybe it’s true.

And worse—like all incubi, he’s as handsome as he is terrifying.

Sky-high cheekbones. Scowl sharp enough to cut glass. Tall and cocky smirk that dimples in the corners when inflicting pain on others.

And like a moth drawn to a flame, a shocking number of my classmates have tried asking him out. We have a tally in a sketchy shared doc somewhere, and so far, it’s up to 15 rejections.

He’s also never been seen on a dating app, much to the disappointment of every clout-chaser in town.

As far as I know, he might not be attracted to humans. Maybe he likes witches and pagan spirits. There would be no way of knowing.

I toss my hair in front of my shoulders, trying to calm my racing heart. Men like long blonde hair, right? He has to be at least partially man if he resembles one.

I steel my resolve.

This will take a miracle.

But I’m miraculous, so I know I can do it.

“You’re going to be a doctor, Barbie,” I tell myself. “You can ask a man on a date.”

So I tentatively step onto the dull grey tiles of the workroom and take it as a good sign that it’s nearly empty. Dr. Demon sits by himself at a computer, furiously talking into his recording software while surrounded by energy drinks.

No more stalling. As the night shift drags on, he’s only going to get grumpier.

He continues mumbling orders into the Voice-Hera, rubbing his brows every so often in clear frustration. Slumped in his lopsided chair, he’s still nearly taller than me, even while seated.

I approach with hesitant steps, avoiding the piles of clutter and backpacks thrown everywhere, tripping over myself when he speaks.

“You’re late,” he says bluntly.

“What?”

He swivels the chair around, pinning me with a stern glare. Dark, calculating eyes meet mine.

“If you’re an M4,” he says, “you should know that arriving after sign-out is a grim look for a surgery sub-I.”

“I’m not—I’m not a surgery sub-I,” I stammer.

Ah, shit. This has already gone south. Heat rises to my face, already embarrassed.2

My determination wavers under the yellow-stained fluorescent lights, flickering ominously under his withering glare.

Dr. Demon crosses his arms, unimpressed, as he turns back around.

“But I am an M4!” I yelp.

He releases a dramatic sigh, stretching out his arms and clicking back through his computer. Even without flexing, his shoulders are broad enough to extend way past the limits of the chair.

Good. The extra mass will help if I can pull this off. I need him to look terrifying.

“Why are you here then?” he bites out, flying through his patients’ charts. “Don’t tell me you’re lost. I can’t help you. I have work to do.”

He raises his shoulder just slightly. “The snacks are over there if you’re hungry, but I presume you have enough of a brain to figure that out.”

The peanut butter and jelly Crusties in the fridge are calling to me, but that’s beside the point.

I need to keep going, I gaslight myself. His arrogant attitude will serve me well—that’s the infamous demon we all know and love. Or that I’ll pretend to love, anyway.

I’m talking to his back when I answer with, “I… need a favor.”

“A favor?” he responds scornfully. He grumbles out more commands to his Phoenix dictation machine.

Yes, this is exactly the curmudgeon for the job.

“So…” I struggle to counter his tone with something delightful. Everyone can use some sunshine, right?

His hunch over the computer deepens, and I realize I’m running out of time.

“I won’t take long,” I continue quickly. “I just need a small favor.”

I can practically feel the growl in his voice. “It’s already taking too long. And the second my patients start crashing, I’m out of here. I already had to deal with transfer train wrecks from The Hospital last night; I can’t even imagine what horrors this night holds.”3

He chugs the last of his energy drink—and I notice with much fascination that his Adam’s apple is actually a little cute, despite his wrinkled hospital-issued scrubs—and I decide it’s now or never. While he’s drinking and can’t argue.

“Go on a date with me,” I rush out.

He chokes, spraying caffeinated chemicals everywhere, splattering the already stained desk.

“Ah!” I shriek, rushing forward to do the Heimlich, but he stops me with a hand extended.

“What?” he coughs. Now he looks baffled, eyebrows flying up to his hairline. “Did your residents put you up to this?”

He finally looks at me, noticing my badge and fixating on the ‘OR trained!’ sticker. “What in the OB fuckery is this? They aren’t bored enough with tormenting me through meaningless consults?”

I hold my hands up, pleading. “Please hear me out?”

He blinks furiously, scrubbing the liquid from his face.

“Okay, so I’m kind of in a situation right now,” I explain.

“Your evaluation isn’t dependent on your harassing me or something?” He scoffs. “They can’t make you buy them coffee or pigtail the O.R. like a normal med student?”

“No, but I still need a favor.” I take a deep breath, nervously checking the door. It’s still just us here, which is good, but I have no idea how long this will last.

I jump to the worst part of my plan, hoping to start with the most shocking before circling back to the date idea.

“I need you to fall in love with me.”

“Huh?”

“See, there’s this guy,” I blurt. “His name is David, and he goes to my school, and I can’t stand him.

I did date him, which was my fault, but then he cheated on me, so I did the right thing and dumped him.

But he’s still bothering me, and I was hoping, if you were willing, that we could act like we’re dating, and then he would leave me alone, and it would only have to be for a year since I’m about to match and you’re a transitional year—”

“You want to go on a date with a resident for revenge?”

My stomach plummets into a pit of embarrassment, but I keep rambling.

“Not revenge! And we don’t have to date or like each other for real.

You see, there’s this book trend I thought might work, where we just pretend to date, but like, not actually.

We can actually hate each other. Which I think you might feel about me, but that’s okay, since this is all a farce anyway—”

Throughout my word salad, he keeps staring at me, glinting eyes narrowing as if they can pierce through my trembling soul.

“See, you’re Dr. Demon, and I know David will be terrified of you—”

His jaw twitches, and I pray to God he knows about his nickname as I continue, “And I can help you too! I’m really nice, and people like me!”