Chapter 3
THREE
FINN
The click of the door roused me. Ugh, rude.
I rolled onto a pillow that didn’t smell like me, exhaled, and went back to sleep.
The next time I blinked awake, sunlight slanted straight into my left eye. My brain spun slowly, a kaleidoscope of colors—swirling past pleasantly loose muscles and washed-thin sheets, the low hum of the AC and a mattress that was a little too soft and empty next to me.
Right. Hookup physics—hot bodies evaporate by dawn. Not that I was a pro. Except—well. Apparently, I could pass for one. Also, there was a note on the nightstand. A note and…
Cash.
I rubbed grit out of my eyes, shook my head, and reached for the slip of paper. Huh. An unnecessary apology for falling asleep, his number, and a hundred bucks.
Pretty sure I owe more.
Holy shit. I snorted. Then outright laughed, falling back against the headboard.
God, the universe did have a sense of humor, didn’t it?
One minute, I was a newly minted, just-got-dumped resident looking for secondhand confidence in a bar; the next, I was moonlighting as an escort who charged by the hour but forgot to keep time.
Well, though—take that, Travis. Sloppy grinding? My ass.
Which was just a hint sore, on that note. In a good way. The kind I’d maybe mention to Eli back home, linked to a slightly edited recount of my first night in the big city. Or maybe not edited—that’s what friends were for, right?
I sifted through flashes of Jesse’s hand light around my neck, his green eyes sure and steady on me, the rush of water in the shower, tiles cold against my cheek. Thrusts that started slow and grew rough and urgent, his mouth open against my shoulder. Jesus.
Still—a twinge of guilt pricked the afterglow. Lying wasn’t exactly a habit I’d hoped to pick up along with a new address. I could text, clear the air. Hey, plot twist—not a hooker. Just someone who commits fully to bad choices. Sorry?!
And then… what? Grab a coffee, laugh about it, check if our spark carried into the harsher light of day? Yeah, no. I’d only just come out of a relationship and was about to start my residency, so this had train wreck graffitied all over it.
Clean break. Day-one orientation tomorrow, and I still didn’t know which subway would take me to the right stop without detouring to the airport.
Let it go.
On my way to the bathroom, I slipped the money and note into my wallet—emergency coffee fund, in case Devon Memorial offered the same sad brew they’d had in Pittsfield.
The mirror showed eyeliner that bloomed into raccoon chic, and I gave myself a beaming smile because studies said that if the body faked it, the mind followed suit like a straggler to the party.
Showered and shaved, I dressed in fresh clothes and grabbed my phone, briefly pausing on my way downstairs to the hotel breakfast. A few notifications, including Eli’s advice to just hand over the money if I got mugged, my mom checking whether I’d arrived okay, and an email from the hospital to remind me of my agenda for the next five days—boot-camp week, starting eight a.m. tomorrow.
Real life waiting outside the door, hourly rates abysmal.
I hesitated for a second, then checked the note and saved Jesse’s number. Just in case I wanted to send him a quick text after all—nothing big, even just a Thanks for last night, I’m good with the balance.
Then again, it wasn’t like he’d be waiting with bated breath to hear from me. So, no.
I put my phone away and went to find coffee.
Much like Dr. Jekyll, Devon Memorial came with two faces: a modern wing that looked just like any other hospital in the country and a historic core with gothic arches that smelled like a blend of dusty books and antiseptics.
For maximum intimidation, that’s where orientation week kicked off—echoing footsteps and high ceilings, narrow stairwells and erratic signage. Good thing I’d left early.
Okay. Final check of my slightly distorted reflection in the elevator. Polo shirt, a nice pair of chinos, and no eyeliner—absolutely zero hooker cosplay. Bring on the HR paperwork, hygiene lectures, and someone officially handing me a white coat.
Ready.
A wave of other first-year residents surged around the registration table—pediatrics, neuro, ob-gyn, psychiatry, everyone looking suitably bright-eyed, caffeinated, and bushy-tailed. I donned my best charming-but-not-smarmy smile and jumped into the crowd.
Badge photo. The flash went off just as someone behind me joked that they wanted our photos now “because it’s the most alive we’ll look for the next seven years.
” The result was an ID that showed me halfway into a startled laugh.
Not terrible. Next—a swag bag with two pens, a coffee cup with the hospital logo, and a welcome folder titled Code of Professionalism.
Orientation itself was death by PowerPoint.
I forced myself to sit near the front because I’d always retained more that way and tried to take notes on dress code (navy scrubs), dating policies (no relationships within your reporting line, not that I’d have time for it anyway), duty hours (so many more in practice than on paper, rumor had it), patient privacy (don’t leave lab reports in Starbucks), and hierarchy and escalation (respect the sacred chain and be nice to your supervising fellow).
During the break, I struck up a conversation with the guy lining up behind me for disappointing coffee—another surgery intern named Khai.
He seemed aloof right up until he confessed he’d done pre-application research into whether New York was safe for introverts.
There was a quiet confidence to him, though, all low voice, sharp fade, and dark eyes that missed nothing.
We bonded over the discrepancy between health benefits that included regular dental cleaning and the reality of twenty-four-hour shifts, then sat next to each other for the rest of the session.
Welcome to Speed Dating, the Friendship Edition.
And yet the underlying drum beat never quite quit: Prove yourself.
Everyone here had perfect grades, polished CVs, and surgeons for parents.
Me? Sort of. My mom was an artist, yeah, but my dad pretty much embodied the “beloved small-town GP” cliché, and growing up in his shadow was a source of both inspiration and pressure.
So when Travis had told me to marry my ambitions?
Well, hi—family expectations were a thing. Dick.
I smoothed my shirt, remembered my smile, and asked the person next to Khai about their med-school electives.
By late afternoon, the air inside the auditorium had gone stale.
The program director finally dismissed us with a reminder to pick up our scrubs before the start of tomorrow’s department-specific orientation, held in skill labs and OR simulation rooms. For me?
Four days of surgery boot camp, scored by supervising fellows and rolled into our early eval packet—just in case anyone thought they were going to ease us into this whole thing. Yeah, think again.
But first: a place to live. Fifth floor, Washington Heights, two roommates. Furnished—barely.
I picked up my suitcase from the hotel, then headed over. The glass door buzzed open after I’d said my name into a crackling intercom. Inside, the building smelled of curry and aggressive cleaning products, but the elevator worked, and the corridor was clear of garbage. Good enough.
“Finn, right?” A blond guy around my age leaned against the doorframe—mid-to-late twenties and broad-shouldered, with a smile big enough to rival the overhead lights. Must be Neil. I’d already liked him from the brief texts we’d exchanged, but in person, he seemed even brighter. “Come on in.”
“Neil? Thanks for welcoming me.” I shook his hand, his grip easy and confident without the need to prove anything.
He waved for me to follow into what I’d call home for the foreseeable future—fake wood floors and mess of coats and shoes, tall windows.
The kitchen was functional: cupboards, stove, fridge, and a sturdy table with four mismatched chairs. Again, good enough.
“You said you’re a nurse, right?” I accepted a glass of water with a smile, leaning against the counter. “At a retirement home?”
“Yep. And you’re a resident at Devon Memorial? So, overworked and chronically sleep-deprived.”
I nodded and mirrored his grin. “Yeah. Guess we won’t be home much at the same time.”
“Less chance of murderous conflict.”
“Always a plus.” A beat of silence followed—not uncomfortable, just assessing. I let my expression tilt into something slightly more serious. “Any house rules I should know about?”
“Cleaning duty rotates on a weekly basis, and garbage goes out Thursdays. Fine if you want to bring home some hookup or whatever, but keep it down and make sure they don’t finish someone else’s milk.”
“That’s…” I snorted. “Oddly specific.”
“Yeah, well.” Neil shrugged with his arms wide, laughing. “Sam—Samantha—had a phase. Second time I had to drink my morning coffee black, I put my foot down. Or, you know, a couple of toes. I’m more of a harmony kind of guy.”
“Okay, yeah.” I chuckled. “That makes two of us. And honestly, I think I’ll be too busy to have anything like a sex life.
” Well, at least now that my program had officially kicked off.
Briefly, I flashed back to the hotel room—warm hands pinning my hips, Jesse’s voice a shade rough, his mouth open against my shoulder.
“Sorry for your loss,” Neil said on another laugh, roping me back into the present.
“I’ll live,” I said.
“Sure. But what a sad and lonely life it’ll be.”
“Well, if you’re offering…” I paired it with a little smirk to show I was joking, my tone light even as I watched him for a reaction. Usually, I’d wait a shade longer to check the limits of a roommate’s tolerance, but something about him invited instant honesty.