Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
JESSE
I should have been done two hours ago—off the clock, out the door. Too bad reality hadn’t received the memo.
Past nine, the hospital was thinning to its bones, down to a low hum of lights and cleaning crews shuffling about.
I’d peeled out of scrubs an hour ago, bag slung over my shoulder and coat draped over my arm for one last lap through the pediatric surgery wing.
Just habit. Professional diligence. Not at all to catch a glimpse of Finn.
After all, checking on him wasn’t my job anymore.
I turned a corner, my sneakers soft on linoleum. The corridor looked as lackluster as I felt—graying walls washed in tired light, kind of empty.
Then—a cough. Quiet and ragged, as if painfully scraping its way out. I frowned.
Resident workroom? That’s what it had sounded like. I moved forward on quiet soles and peered through the half-open door.
Finn.
He was slumped on the far couch, eyes closed and head braced on one arm. His other hand pressed down on his throat. Even so, another cough stuttered out, and I watched his face contort with it. Oh, Jesus.
I stepped inside before I could remember all the reasons not to. “Hey. What’s going on with you?”
His lids fluttered open, pupils slow to adjust. He blinked at me, expression foggy, cheeks flushed with fever. Damp hair clung to his temples. “I’m fine,” he croaked, sitting up too fast. “Just tired.”
Sure. And I was a rainbow-shitting unicorn.
“Tired,” I repeated, flat and unimpressed.
His smile wobbled around the edges. “Twenty-four-hour shift, right? It’s baked into the process. Test of character and all.”
“You’re sick.” I started toward him, and he watched me through glassy eyes, squinting as if trying to decide if I was just a trick of his dizzy mind. It broke something small and fragile in my chest.
“Jesse?”
“Yeah,” I said, softer than I should have. “Come on, sweetheart.” Shit. Okay, move along. “You’re sweating, you’re the same color as the walls, and you can barely even focus on me. You are not fine.”
“It’s just a stupid cold.” He started to push himself upright—too fast, stumbling on shaky legs. I caught him. He was shivering faintly in my arms, burning up, his face hot where our cheeks touched, just briefly.
“Jesus, Finn.” I forced myself to move back half a step, steadying him. “You need to go home. Now.”
“Don’t make it a thing,” he said, words gritty like sandpaper. “Please? I’m good to finish. I can sleep it off tomorrow.”
I could feel the fever rolling off him, breath rasping in his throat. Yeah, we’d all been there—showing up when we shouldn’t have, swept up in a work culture with little tolerance for people falling sick. Oh, the irony.
“Not under my watch.” My voice was gentle, too gentle, and I didn’t even care. “I’m calling in coverage. Because you? You’re going home.”
He winced. “No, seriously. I can make it. I don’t want to be—”
“Weak?” I interrupted. “A drama queen? The guy who taps out?” I held his gaze. “Yeah, trust me—been there, thought that. And it’s all bullshit. You’re sick, that’s all.”
This time, he didn’t argue.
I prompted him back onto the couch, then went to the nurses’ station and told them to call in Finn’s replacement. “I thought he didn’t look too good,” the night charge nurse said. “But he insisted he was fine.”
“Are you surprised?” I asked, and she shook her head.
“No. Not the first one, sure won’t be the last.”
When I got back, Finn was upright but staring into space, looking so miserable that I wanted to shake him for not taking better care of himself, then bundle him up in blankets and feed him tea.
Out of the question.
“I can walk.” His protest was weak as I helped him up, but he didn’t shrug me off when my hand lingered for another second or two. I let go once we moved down the hallway, his steps quietly shuffling, head down.
The elevator arrived with a ding. I let him enter first and followed, leaning into the corner opposite from him. His forehead shone under the harsh light, lips pressed together. He swayed when we set into motion.
“You’re not going to faint on me, right?” I’d meant for it to come out lightly, but concern bled into my tone.
“Would you catch me again?” A joke, except his voice cracked. He looked exhausted, pale and drawn, and it somehow punched the breath out of me—a rush of affection for this stubborn, beautiful man who’d rather keel over than admit he needed a day off.
“Always,” I said, gentle like a promise.
He stared at me, blue eyes hazy, lashes blinking drugged-slowly. “Yeah?”
“Finn…” I didn’t know how to finish—there was nothing I could say.
Nothing I was allowed to say. Fortunately, we hit ground level, doors sliding open on a mostly deserted lobby.
We walked together, close enough that I could steady him if needed but far enough to seem appropriate.
Cool night air wrapped around us once we stepped outside, Finn still in his scrubs. He could ditch them another day.
“Here,” I said, holding out my coat.
He inhaled like it hurt. “Won’t you need it?”
“I’ll be fine.”
He pulled his lower lip into his mouth, then ducked his head and took the coat from me. I watched him slide it on, something in me going utterly still at that—Finn wearing my clothes. As if…
Yeah. No.
I turned away to flag a cab idling at the curb.
“I can—” Finn started saying, only for a cough to swallow the rest of his protest. I cut him off with a pointed look.
“You’re not taking the subway.”
He didn’t try again, and when I opened the door for him, he sagged into the back seat, mumbling a greeting at the cabbie along with an address in Washington Heights.
Okay, this was my cue to let him go. I was late for a date with my bed, and he’d be fine from here. Right?
I paused—door still open, my hand on the frame. Then I glanced around. Shadows where we stood, the hospital lit up against a velvet night sky that never went truly dark, not like back home where I could see the stars.
He probably would be fine from here. But what if he wasn’t? He was sick, wobbly. Seeing him home was… defensible.
I climbed in after him and shut the door.
“Jesse?” he asked, so soft and tired it damn near broke my heart.
“Just making sure you get home okay.” I watched him across the gap between us—leaned against the window with his head tipped back, small in a way he really wasn’t. Not usually. “Is that all right?”
“Thank you,” he whispered. I barely caught it over the sweeping classical music that trickled from the speakers, light as evening rain.
“You’re welcome,” I said—as if it was all about him, like I was doing him a favor when taking him home felt selfishly necessary.
We pulled into motion, city lights blurring outside the window.
Finn lived in an aggressively plain brick-slab building that rose ten floors or so, with an aluminum-framed glass door leading into the lobby and an ancient intercom that probably only worked when it was in the mood.
Cracked sidewalk, a streetlamp pouring orange light onto the pavement.
Exactly the kind of place I’d have expected—typical tight-budget student accommodation, rent-controlled if he was lucky.
This was it. This was where I’d say good night and leave him.
“You good from here?” I asked.
He gave a small nod and inched open the car door on his side. A gust of chilly October air swept in, carrying the sounds of a distant truck, a deli gate clattering shut somewhere nearby—and Finn swayed, just a little, arms wrapped around himself, still bundled up in my coat.
Fuck it.
I was out of the cab before I could think, circling to his side. His head lolled slightly where he was sagged against the car, eyes half-lidded. “I think there’s, like… sunflower seeds in your pocket?”
Ah. Yeah. “It’s just for the birds,” I said. “Not for me.”
“Cute,” he mumbled, chin against his chest, and I swallowed my token protest—no need when he might not even remember this.
“Hey,” the cabbie called, leaning out the driver’s window.
“Right, sorry.” I fumbled for my card, tipping too much like it could absolve me of guilt for another line I was about to cross. My pulse beat hard and fast against my ribs.
The cab drove off.
I slid a hand under Finn’s elbow. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
He made a noise, slurred and low, that might have been words. Thanks, maybe, or asking me not to fuss. He didn’t pull away, though. So I slipped an arm around his waist, his weight settling into me as we moved toward his building. His cheek bumped my shoulder.
“’M fine,” he muttered, apropos of nothing.
“Sure.” I tightened my hold on him, opening the chipped-glass door to the lobby. “And I’m the Easter Bunny.”
His chuckle sounded like it hurt on the way out, words barely coherent. “Long ears.”
“Whatever you say.” Innuendo? Might have been. If so, it must be the kind that resonated better with a feverish brain. Inside, the building smelled like over-bleached floors that couldn’t entirely mask something old and a little stale. Down the hallway, a TV was playing too loud.
“What floor?” I asked him.
He blinked as though it took great effort. “Five.”
I steered us toward the elevator and pressed the button.
The doors groaned open like they had better things to do on a Saturday night, which, tough luck.
I shuffled us inside and pressed 5 while Finn rested most of his weight on me, head on my shoulder.
Sweat beaded along his hairline as the elevator juddered upward.
Palm against his forehead—too warm, breath slightly too quick and shallow. Flu, probably. Not hallucination-level bad, but he shouldn’t be alone.