Chapter 3 #3
Not surprising, no—they were cycling us through every station twice by the end of the week.
But, you know. I could have done with a few more hours before facing him.
Work out what I’d say. Well, it wasn’t like he’d call me out in front of everyone, mention how I’d looked with my mouth around his dick or anything like that, but…
Yeah. “So, hi, funny story? Not a hooker. Had a great time, though. Let me know if you want your money back. Also, please don’t kick me out? ”
No. No, he couldn’t. Fellows evaluated us, yes, but they wouldn’t single-handedly get to kick an intern out.
Right? And anyway, he’d hardly be eager to explain just how I’d offended him.
“Dropped some money on an escort, turns out he’s not.
” Yeah, no. But could he make my life a hell of a lot more difficult? Probably, yeah. Did I deserve it?
Ugh.
Possibly.
Jesse stood at the entrance to the suture lab, checking off names with quick nods. Fuck.
Act casual.
“Morning,” I mumbled when it was my turn, pulse thudding in the hollow of my throat. “Finn Hayes.”
He fixed me with a brief, sharp look, eyes unreadable, then tapped my name on his tablet and handed over a small zip pouch—needle driver, forceps, a pad with pre-printed incision lines. Our fingers didn’t brush. Jesse Maddox, his badge told me. Pediatric Surgery—Fellow.
“Thanks,” I said, mostly steady. I moved on.
Knot-tying station. Foam skin held the needle like it wanted to be helpful, no tug or twitch, no blanching—like suturing a yoga mat.
I knew because I’d done it, trying to perfect my technique on the closest approximation I already owned.
It allowed me to rely on muscle memory as I stitched and knotted, thoughts a scramble, too damn aware of Jesse’s presence as he orbited the section, demonstrating, correcting, his tone calm and friendly.
He passed me a couple of times but didn’t linger.
Not until mid-morning, anyway. We’d rotated to central-line mannequins, and I was lining up jugular landmarks, heard him coaching Khai at the station next to me. “Needle at thirty degrees—like that, yes. Don’t forget to breathe.” The timbre of Jesse’s voice washed down my spine like warm water.
Not helpful, body.
When he stopped by my side, it was just after my partner had dashed out for a bio break.
Just us. And everyone else in the room, of course, close enough to catch every word.
So—confrontation inevitable, time unknown.
But not now. I tried to keep my hands steady as I chanced a sideways glance at him.
Defined cheekbones and green eyes that held none of the gentle laughter of our night together.
Should I say something? Keep my mouth shut?
“Looks clean.” He crouched slightly to examine my work, watching for a second or two, before straightening with a faint nod. “Just remember to stabilize the hub when you pull the needle.”
About to move on, he paused to adjust the angle of my tray and flicked something underneath it with his thumb—a fast, near-invisible motion unless you were paying close attention. I was.
A half-folded scrap of paper peeked out like a magical trick.
Or the result of quick, deft surgeon hands—hands that had been all over my body, slick thumb nudging into me with steady pressure, God.
Somehow, I kept working. Clamp, needle, thread.
Forced myself to mutter something that passed for “Thanks” as he stepped away.
I shifted, reaching for the sterile checklist next to the tray. A quick look around the room—everyone was busy, distracted, Jesse’s back to me. I palmed the note and tucked it into my pocket, heart in my throat.
Later. Now—focus.
Jesse didn’t return. He rotated through the room, offering nods and quiet corrections—all professional distance, no lingering glances, as if I was just another intern in a sea of hopefuls.
Good. I was.
So I kept my face even and my hands precise. Didn’t hope for a flicker of something. Certainly didn’t watch the back of his neck like he might turn.
By the time they called a break, a headache pressed up behind my forehead, a mild sense of nausea. I slipped away from the others, careful not to rush, and ducked into the nearest bathroom and an empty stall. Oh, Jesus. Okay. No time like the present.
Deep breath first, though. Because… fuck.
Of all the guys at the bar, I’d picked the one who could label me incompetent: a senior surgery fellow, six years ahead of me, on the brink of finishing his training.
Who might stick around as an attending after—if he ran part of the residency introduction, he’d clearly made a name for himself.
Awesome. Just truly fucking awesome. Thanks, karma—message received. No more lying, ever. Promise.
I pulled the note from my pocket and stared at it like it might sprout claws and teeth. What would it say? What did I want it to say? “Stay the hell away from me. I want my money back. Hey, wanna do it again?”
Except, no. Not the last one. I’d listened to yesterday’s lecture on dating policies, and just—yeah, no. Thanks. Also, I was stalling.
Another breath, then I finally unfolded the note.
Rooftop. Service stairs, Bldg. 5 North, ignore the no access sign. 5:30. We talk.
No signature, no please, no smiley face. I refolded the note, slid it back into my pocket, and exhaled harshly through my nose. Countdown: running. I had until five thirty to figure out how to stitch up a messy lie.
No pressure.