27. Jonah
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jonah
Harper’s Pool House
10:07 PM
I lie behind Harper on the sofa, holding her close as we watch A Family Affair with Nicole Kidman and Zac Efron. Their chemistry crackles on screen. I'm hyper-aware of Harper's body pressed against mine, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing.
On screen, Oliver pins Katharine to the wall in a dimly lit room. He trails kisses down her neck, murmuring, "I can't resist you." I feel Harper's breath catch. Emboldened, I let my hand drift to her hip, then slide under her shirt to caress her smooth stomach.
The movie intensifies as Oliver lifts Katharine onto a table. Their movements are desperate, hungry. My fingers play at the waistband of Harper's jeans. She unzips them and guides my hand lower. As I slip beneath her panties, I'm struck by how wet she is already. My cock stiffens in response. Harper moans softly as I start to rub her, her hips moving in rhythm with my fingers. The gasps and growls from the TV mingle with Harper's soft cries.
Harper turns to face me, kissing me deeply as her fingers tangle in my hair. She straddles my lap and pulls off her shirt and bra. I cup her perfect breasts, brushing my thumbs over her hardened nipples. "You're so beautiful," I whisper reverently.
On screen, Oliver is undressing Katharine urgently. Harper mirrors the action, kissing down my chest and stomach as she unbuttons my pants. She pulls them off torturously slowly, running her tongue along my inner thighs. I groan as she finally takes me in her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head of my cock while her hand strokes the shaft. "Fuck, Harper," I moan, my hands tangling in her hair.
Just as I'm nearing the edge, Harper pulls away with a wicked smile. She stands to remove her jeans and panties, her body glowing in the TV's flickering light. As she straddles me again, she positions herself over my aching cock. Slowly, excruciatingly, she sinks onto me. We both gasp at the sensation of being fully joined.
Our movements sync with the movie's escalating tension. Oliver whispers something filthy to Katharine as he thrusts into her. Harper grins at me. "Trying to outdo Oliver, are we?"
I growl playfully, "Oliver doesn't stand a chance."
Harper takes control then, riding me with wild abandon. Her nails dig into my shoulders as she moans my name. I grip her hips, guiding her as I thrust up to meet her. On screen, Oliver carries Katharine to the bed. Their desperate movements mirror our frenzied rhythm.
As the movie characters reach their climax, Harper and I follow suit. Our cries of pleasure blend with the soundtrack as waves of ecstasy wash over us. Harper collapses onto my chest, both of us panting heavily as aftershocks pulse through our bodies.
I hold her close, brushing my lips against her temple. Harper laughs softly. "We're never going to watch this movie the same way again."
I smirk, kissing her shoulder. "Next time, I'll show you what really outdoing Oliver looks like."
Tuesday, March 10
UAB
9:41 AM
The patient’s arm trembles slightly as I stabilize it with one hand. “Just a little pinch,” I murmur, guiding the needle into the vein with practiced precision. The draw is smooth, textbook smooth. I click the safety lock on the needle, but the patient shifts and bumps my hand in the split second before the lock engages.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath as a sharp sting pierces my glove.
I pull back immediately, the needle now safely capped in my hand. A sharp sting radiates from the base of my thumb, and when I look down, I spot a tiny puncture in the glove—a mark that confirms what I already felt. My chest tightens as I force myself to stay calm.
“What happened?” a nurse asks, her head snapping up.
“Needle stick,” I reply tersely, discarding the needle and glove in the sharps container. I grab a fresh pair of gloves and flex my hand, inspecting the tiny puncture. “It’s fine.”
Her eyes widen slightly, and she glances at the patient. “Do you?—”
“I know,” I cut in, not wanting her to finish the thought. The chart said it clearly: HIV-positive. The patient’s viral load was undetectable, but that doesn’t matter right now. The protocol is the same.
“Just get me the exposure kit,” I add, my voice calm but clipped. Inside, my pulse is racing.
The nurse moves quickly, and I step into the hallway, leaning against the wall. My jaw tightens as the gravity of the situation sinks in.
This isn’t supposed to happen. Not to me. Outside the chaos of my personal life, this is where I thrive. Here, I’m steady, controlled, precise.
Are you fucking kidding me?! This is a rookie mistake. I don’t do shit like this—I’ve performed thousands of surgeries. I’m careful, measured, and always in control. That’s the one thing I can count on, no matter what else in my life is out of control.
How did I let this happen? A stupid slip because I wasn’t paying attention the way I should’ve been. It’s not just frustrating—it’s humiliating.
The nurse returns with the kit, and I get to work, disinfecting the site, taking my own blood sample, and filling out the exposure paperwork. By the time it’s over, I feel like I’ve been dragged through a grinder. My hand shakes as I sign the last form, and I shove it into the file before anyone else can notice.
I finish my shift in a daze, my mind looping back to the prick of the needle, the look on the patient’s face, the numbers scrawled on their chart.
Harper’s Pool House
6:41 PM
I knock on Harper’s door. A bag from the Vietnamese place down the street balances in one hand while I grab my phone with the other.
The rich scent of pho and spring rolls drifts upward. I've been looking for anything to take my mind off of what happened this morning, and the anticipation of this food is doing a good job.
The hours at the hospital were long, and my mind’s been stuck in a loop since the needle stick, and waiting for the test results is making me restless. Pho and Harper are just what I need.
The real question buzzing in my mind is whether I should tell her.
The incident flashes through my mind again—the needle, the patient’s blood before it was cleaned up, the tiny prick on my hand.
My stomach tightens. Harper doesn’t need to know, I argue with myself. She worked a twelve-hour overnight shift last night. The last thing she needs is to worry about my stupid mistakes.
I’m sure everything is fine, anyway. I'm irritated that I keep dwelling on it.
The door swings open, and there she is, barefoot and smiling, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. “Hey, you,” she says, stepping aside to let me in. “I hope that bag smells as good as you look,” she says with a laugh. I pull her to me and kiss her in greeting because seeing her immediately puts me at ease.
“It does,” I say, holding it up with a faint smile. “I figured a change from pizza couldn’t hurt.”
She sniffs the air and grins. “You’re right. Good call.”
As I step inside, the warmth of her place wraps around me. "Hmm. Something smells good."
She points to the kitchen counter. "I thought a little candle to set the mood was in order. Mandarin Mint. Never would have put those two together, but I like it."
"Very nice, indeed, Miss Gray. Let's eat! I'm starving, and that mandarin is making my mouth water."
We settle at the kitchen island and start unpacking the food. I catch her looking up at me while she goes about her chores. Her gaze isn’t prying, but it’s observant.
“You okay?” she asks, her tone light but laced with curiosity. If I didn't know any better, it's like she is waiting for me to tell her something she already knows. I try to brush over it.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, too quickly. I grab a set of chopsticks and focus on the container of noodles in front of me.
“You sure?” she presses, her voice softer now.
Her eyes narrow just enough for me to notice, and then she pushes just enough to almost leave me no option but to go there. “Carly stopped by earlier,” she says as we settle on the couch.
I take a bite, chewing slowly. “That so?” I'm still holding my ground, trying not to take the bait.
“Mm-hmm.” She picks at her noodles with her chopsticks, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “She mentioned something about a mishap in the OR?”
I set my plate down, keeping my expression neutral. “She’s exaggerating. It wasn’t a big deal.”
Harper leans back, her gaze steady. “Jonah,” she says softly, the way you might coax a nervous animal. “What happened?”
I hesitate, my jaw tightening. “It’s nothing,” I insist. “Just a needle stick. It happens.”
“With an HIV-positive patient?” she presses gently.
Damn it. Harper sees too much. My instinct is to deflect, to make a joke, to minimize isn't going to work with her.
I set the chopsticks down and lean back in the chair, letting out a slow breath. “Based on your non-subtle detective skills, you don't need to hear the rundown from me,” I start with a quiet but direct tone.
Her expression shifts immediately—concern without panic, patient without pushing. She doesn’t say a word, but her eyes confirm it.
Her brows draw together. “Jonah. I'm so sorry. Carly did tell me, and she said you were worried. I'm more concerned about how you feel rather than what exactly went down.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, holding up a hand. “It’s just going through the protocol now—bloodwork, monitoring, the whole nine yards. The odds are that it’s going to be a non-issue. Just a pain in my ass and annoying. Otherwise, I feel fine.”
"Fine, huh? Okay, if you say so," she says as she stuffs a mouthful of noodles in her mouth. Her chopstick skills are unprecedented.
I turn to face her, tucking my leg under me. “I don’t know what I think,” I admit. “It’s a rookie mistake. That’s what’s eating at me. I don’t fuck up like that. Not at work. It’s the one place where I don’t.”
There. She finally got it out to me. She wanted to know how I feel. Here you go.
She leans forward, her hand brushing mine. The warmth of her touch is grounding. “First of all, you hardly ever fuck up,” she says gently. “The Great Jonah Bellinger. But, news flash, you are human. Anyone could have made that mistake. I certainly wouldn't call it 'rookie.'”
“'Hardly ever' doesn't cut it for me. I need 'never' as a surgeon,” I reply with a surprising edge that even catches me off guard. But I do mean that. This job doesn't allow for mistakes.
“Jonah, let's be realistic, okay? Melodrama doesn't suit you,” she counters. “One mistake doesn’t undo your record as a surgeon. It doesn’t make you any less good at what you do. This, too, shall pass.”
Her words chip away at the wall I’ve built around the fear, the guilt, the pressure I put on myself. It’s not gone, but it’s lighter. Manageable.
“Anytime,” she replies, her smile warm and steady. “Now, eat your food before it gets cold. I’m not letting you spiral on an empty stomach.”
I chuckle despite myself. She does have an uncanny knack for reducing my stress. “You’re bossy, you know that?”
“Someone has to keep you in line,” she says with a wink, grabbing her plate.