Chapter 21
Regan
I practically skip into work, heading straight for the break room, halfway through the door before I remember Brant owes me coffee today.
A grin tugs at my lips as I spin on my heel, but I don’t get far.
I crash into someone solid.
Strong hands catch my arms.
“Whoa there,” Mason laughs, his fingers lingering a second too long. “Where are you headed so fast?”
“To my office,” I reply, steadying myself and trying not to wrinkle my nose at the contact. His touch is warm, but it doesn’t spark anything. No tingles. Not like when Brant's hand brushes mine, and I forget how to breathe.
Mason raises an eyebrow. “Your office?”
“For today it is.” I smile smugly.
His expression softens, his hands sliding lower to my elbows. Still touching me. I’m just about to step back when movement catches my eye.
Brant.
He walks around the corner with my dad beside him. My entire body stiffens. Brant’s eyes lock on mine first, then drop to where Mason’s hands are still on me. My dad follows his gaze.
Awesome.
“That’s right,” Mason says. “The whole role-reversal thing is today.”
I jerk back subtly, just enough to make Mason’s arms fall away. Too late. Brant and my father walk past us without a word, still in quiet conversation. I can’t hear a thing they say, but judging by the way nausea twists in my gut, it’s nothing good.
“I’ve gotta get started. Busy day.” I sidestep Mason and walk off before he can say anything else.
“I’ll catch you later,” he calls after me, and I don’t look back. Mason’s tone was friendlier than last time, but I don’t have the energy to figure out why. All I can think about is the look on Brant’s face when he saw Mason’s hands on me.
Brant’s office is quiet when I slip inside, the door clicking softly behind me.
He’s not here yet. But the room smells like him—clean, classic, with something woody underneath.
I walk slowly toward the desk, checking our calendar.
We’ve got a mix today—ward rounds, office consults, and he’s got a surgery block.
Meaning, I only get him in this flipped dynamic for a few hours.
And I definitely want to boss him around with patients and then get him to make me coffee.
The door swings open. Brant enters, drops his case onto the ground with a thump, and doesn’t say a word.
“No coffee?” I ask, leaning against the edge of the desk.
He doesn’t look at me. “Didn’t you have one with Dr. Gould?”
I bite my lip before answering. “Didn’t go into the break room. I remembered it's your job to fetch my coffee today.”
He shrugs off his coat, still not meeting my gaze. “I’ve already had one. If you want coffee, go make it.”
I raise my eyebrow at him, knowing exactly why he’s acting this way. “Wow. Grumpy much?”
“I’m fine.”
Sure you are.
“Are you… jealous?” I ask, crossing my arms. If he is jealous, this changes everything. It means he feels this chemistry between us that’s been building for weeks. But if he admits it, what then?
He finally looks up, his face blank, giving nothing away. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I don’t believe him, but I let it go.
“Okay, then, is it something my father said?” I press, knowing exactly how blunt he can be and how he’s never been subtle about his opinions. And if he said something to Brant about me, Mason, about my professionalism, it could potentially ruin this.
Brant exhales slowly, like he’s debating whether to say it. “He said he’s going to talk to Dr. Gould. About him touching you.”
I stare at him. Of course, he’d overstep, jump in, and treat me like I can’t handle my own life. “Seriously?”
“He’s your father.”
“And not my personal dating coach,” I say, frustrated with my dad. “He can tell me how to handle patient charts, not men.”
Brant’s jaw tightens.
“And just to be clear… I would never touch Mason.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Mason, not Dr. Gould, I see.”
I step closer, probably a little too close because from here, I can see his pupils are slightly dilated, but I don’t move. “If you’re not going to make my coffee, then order one for me. Either way, I’m asking. I make yours every single day.”
He crosses his arms. “I don’t ask you to.”
I smile sweetly, ignoring the fire in my chest. “And yet, you drink it.”
The air between us tightens, and I swear I can almost see the battle behind his eyes. Pride versus… something else.
He exhales through his nose, mutters something under his breath, and grabs his phone.
“Fine,” he says, tapping the screen. “What do you want?”
I grin. “Our usual.”
His fingers pause mid-order. He lifts his gaze. “We don’t have a usual.”
“We do. You just haven’t admitted it yet.” I say, sinking into the chair behind his desk like I own the place.
He finishes the order and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “This doesn’t make us even.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, twirling a pen between my fingers. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Brant leans against the edge of the filing cabinet, arms crossed again but not in that closed-off way from earlier. This time, there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Do I always boss people around like this?” he asks.
“Only when they don’t listen.”
A knock sounds at the door, and my muscles tense at the interruption. A nurse pokes her head in. “Dr. Thomas? You’ve got a chart consult in ten. Dr. Harrison, they’re prepping OR for an emergency.”
“Thanks,” I say as she disappears again. I’m ready to move on and get to work. I glance at Brant. “Guess the countdown starts now. How’s it feel being my assistant?”
He gives me a look. “Temporary. Like a stick-on tattoo.”
I laugh as I rise, brushing past him, closer than necessary. “You sure? I think it suits you.”
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like brat under his breath, but I catch the glint in his eyes. He’s not mad anymore. Not really.
Ten minutes pass when his phone buzzes.
“Your drink has arrived,” he says flatly.
“You’re the best,” I say as he opens the door. A to-go cup sits outside it.
“I know.”
We step out together, and for a second, it feels like we’re walking into battle side by side.
I take a sip and hum in appreciation. “Damn. You might actually be good at this.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but he’s fighting a grin now as he walks off to the theatre.
After my ward round and his surgery, we’re back and setting up for our office consults.
I reach for the last pack of sterile syringes in the supply closet next to the office at the exact moment Brant does.
His fingers curl instinctively around mine instead of the box.
Instead of pulling my hand back, I leave it there, waiting to see what he’ll do.
“Wow,” I say, glancing up. My heart is beating so loudly in my ears, I’m sure he can hear it too. “Do you always go for the dramatic hand-touch in cramped closets, or is today special because I’m in charge?”
He smirks. “I was here first. You just couldn’t resist following me in.”
Before I can reply, the door swings halfway shut behind us and clicks.
I spin around. “Did you just—”
He tries the handle. “Nope. Not me. It's jammed.”
Great.
The closet is small. Ridiculously small, with wall-to-wall shelves. It’s barely enough room to turn without brushing shoulders. My mind immediately jumps to what if someone finds us in here. And how bad it will look.
I don’t move, mostly to keep from pressing fully into him. “This feels like the setup to either a Dr. Whisperer article… or a lawsuit.”
Brant leans forward against me, and I swallow, feeling his body dangerously close to mine. But I’m not afraid. Not of him. If anything, I want to lean into it. “Relax. Maintenance is probably just down the hall. We’ll be out in no time.”
“Mmm. Trapped in a dark closet with your resident,” I say. “Scandalous headline.”
He raises an eyebrow, and even in the minimal light, I can see the hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I know,” I murmur. And that’s what makes this worse.
My gaze drifts, catching on a little scar on his eyebrow I’ve never noticed before. I wonder how he got it. I want to reach out and trace it with my finger.
The air shifts and the space feels smaller. His breath brushes mine as I lift my chin slightly. My fingers are still half resting on the box of syringes, and his hand is still on mine.
Neither of us moves.
Not away, at least.
His eyes fall to my mouth, slowly, like he’s giving me every chance to pull back.
As his lips part, I realize I’m holding my breath.
My heart pounds, and every muscle in my body is tight, stuck between the electricity of him and the voice in the back of my head that’s saying this is a terrible idea.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
My pulse skyrockets.
Then—
The door bursts open. I jump, my heart included, at the unexpected sound.
“Closet door jammed again,” the janitor mutters, totally unbothered, as he props it open and shuffles away.
I step out first, the cool air hitting my flushed skin. No one notices. Everyone just walks by, lost in their own world, minding their business. The stress eases away, but I still worry they can see through me.
Brant slips out behind me, falling into step beside me. He leans in to whisper near my ear. “I shouldn’t have let that moment get so close.”
Is he apologizing, or regretting it? Maybe he’s just acknowledging what we both felt. I want to ask, but the words are stuck in my throat. So I just nod, trying to process what he means and whether he’s pushing me away or admitting he felt it too.
We walk in silence, the hallway empty now, only our footsteps filling the space. Just before we reach his office, I glance sideways.
“If my father wasn’t the hospital director,” I ask quietly, “what would you do right now?”
I don’t expect him to answer.
Brant pauses, hand hovering over the doorknob. His jaw works like he’s weighing every possible answer.
Then, softly, without looking at me, he says, “I’d still walk away. Because you’re my resident. And I’m supposed to be the example.” I respect him for it, I do. He’s doing the professional thing to protect us both, but it still hurts.
A second passes before he continues. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.”
He opens the door and steps aside to let me in, his gaze on the floor, and my heart is nowhere near recovered.
I head back to Brant’s office after rounds to grab my things. It’s just after eight at night, most of the floor’s cleared for the evening, the lights dimmed, the buzz of call bells from patients replaced by soft conversations between nurses passing down the hall.
He’s shrugging into his coat when I step in, hair slightly mussed from the day, tie still perfectly knotted at his throat.
It makes me think about the closet, how his eyes dropped to my mouth, and neither of us moved, the way everything shifted in the room to a few degrees hotter, and here we are again… Alone.
“Thought you’d left,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He glances over, that half-smile tugging at his lips. “Thought I’d finish up some emails. Didn’t expect company.”
“Lucky you.” I push off the wall as the door closes, and I cross the room.
His desk is tidy. Just like him… Controlled, neat, always three steps ahead. Even his posture gives it away; back straight, shoulders square, suit still perfectly intact.
I shouldn’t do this. I know I shouldn’t.
But standing here, watching him pack up for the day like nothing happened between us, like we’re just colleagues going through the motions, it makes me want to shake him.
To remind him that whatever this is, it’s not nothing.
So I make a stupid, reckless choice, but I reach for his tie anyway.
His eyebrows lift. “What are you doing?”
“You’re too buttoned up,” I say, my fingers grazing the knot. My thumb brushes his throat, and he swallows hard. “Even off the clock, you still look like you’re in a meeting.”
“You complaining?” he asks.
“Nope. Just observing.” I loosen the knot slightly.
He remains silent, watching me as his hands stay at his sides. Mine linger on the knot of his tie before meeting his gaze. And for a second, we just stare at each other.
A code comes through the speakers. My heart jumps, waiting to hear if it’s our floor, so neither of us moves. But when it’s not, I let the announcement fade into background noise and focus back on him.
He breaks eye contact first, glancing at my hand on his neck. “Come on. Let’s pretend we have a life and get home.”
I collect my things, and so does Brant, and then he surprises me by opening the door and covering my hand with his. When our fingers touch, my breath catches at the jolt. It’s like defibrillator pads against my now hot skin. His dark gaze lifts, and I swear he leans in.
Until I see my father watching. Across the hall, half in conversation with another doctor, half turned toward us.
How much did he see? How long has he been standing there?
And what is he thinking right now? I worry he thinks Brant is taking advantage of me, that I’m unprofessional, or worse, that we’re exactly what we look like—two people who can’t seem to keep their hands off each other, even with all the reasons we shouldn’t.
I step back. “You go.” I nod toward the exit, trying to sound normal, even though my heart’s sprinting.
Brant clears his throat and straightens his tie. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t linger, taking off without a second look, case in hand. I stay locked in place as the warmth still pulses beneath my skin like something dangerous.
And when my father finally turns away, I don’t know whether I feel relief or regret.
Maybe both.