Every Heartbeat Between Us (Every Heartbeat #1)

Chapter One First Day, First Impression

Jennie had exactly three talents she trusted completely.

She could make a crying child laugh in under two minutes.

She could sleep anywhere. Buses. Waiting rooms. Once, standing up, during a night shift.

And she could talk her way out of almost any trouble with a smile.

None of those talents were helping her right now.

She stood in front of the hospital bathroom mirror, staring at her own reflection like it had personally betrayed her.

“Okay, Jennie.” She took a breath. “First day as a fellow. Be calm. Be professional.” Another breath.

“Do not make jokes in front of Dr. Lin Xing.” Her reflection did not look convinced.

Fair Indian skin. Large, dark eyes that gave away every single thing she was feeling — her mother always said it would ruin her at cards, her professors said it would make her a wonderful pediatrician, since children could smell insincerity a mile off and Jennie had none to hide.

Her long black hair was pulled into a high ponytail, glossy and neat for now, though it had every intention of losing that battle by noon.

Her white coat was crisp, still creased from the packaging.

At her throat sat a small gold cross, worn so long she barely noticed it — except in moments like this one, when her fingers found it without being asked.

Her badge read: Dr. Jennie — Pediatric Fellow.

That one word — fellow — made her stomach do something fizzy.

She had survived medical school. Survived residency.

Survived children who treated thermometers like instruments of war.

But today felt different. Today, she wasn’t borrowing anyone’s authority.

Today, she had to actually be the doctor.

She touched the cross once. Closed her eyes.

Lord, please let me not embarrass myself before lunch.

Then she grabbed her coffee and walked out. With confidence. Mostly.

The pediatric ward was already awake. Monitors beeped softly behind half-open doors.

Nurses moved fast, the rhythm of people who’d done this ten thousand times before breakfast. Somewhere, a child laughed.

Somewhere closer, another child cried like the whole world had personally wronged him.

Jennie followed the sound. Crying children pulled her like gravity.

Always had. A little boy stood frozen in the corridor, clutching a worn stuffed elephant.

A junior nurse crouched beside him, speaking gently.

Getting nowhere. Jennie stepped forward. Someone else reached him first.

A man walked out of the exam room. And the whole hallway seemed to go quiet around him.

Tall. Dark hair, cut sharp and neat. A white coat that fit like it had been made for exactly this moment.

He crouched down — folding all that height to the boy’s eye level — and Jennie’s brain, usually so quick with commentary, went completely silent.

“That’s a very brave-looking elephant,” he said.

His voice was low. Calm. Patient, like the whole corridor had all the time in the world.

The boy sniffed. “Ellie.” “Ellie.” He nodded, serious as a man reading lab results.

“I think we should check on Ellie first. Elephants get very nervous around stethoscopes.” The boy blinked.

Held the toy out with both hands. The man accepted it carefully.

Pressed his stethoscope to the worn grey fabric.

Listened. “Strong heartbeat,” he announced.

“Very brave elephant. I think he’s ready to watch you get checked, if you are.

” The boy nodded. Wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Walked into the exam room without another sound.

Jennie stood rooted at the end of the hallway.

Coffee forgotten in her hand. She had watched dozens of doctors calm frightened children.

She had never seen anyone do it quite like that.

Who are you? she thought. He rose. Handed the elephant back through the door.

Turned. His eyes found hers. And the gentleness switched off.

All at once. Like a light. His gaze swept over her — coat, badge, coffee — in under two seconds.

Cool. Precise. “You’re the new fellow.” Not a question.

“...Dr. Lin Xing?” she asked. Already knowing.

“Yes.” Of course. Of course the most handsome man I’ve ever seen is Dr. Ice. Is this a test, Lord?

She stuck out her hand. Summoned her best smile. “Dr. Jennie. I start today. Big fan of your elephant work.” The joke landed nowhere. It simply vanished into the air between them.

He shook her hand once — brief, firm — and glanced at the clock.

“You’re early.” “I like to make a good first impression.” “Then don’t make jokes on your first day.

” Flat. No heat. Like he was commenting on the weather.

“I don’t repeat instructions. I don’t accept a careless chart.

I expect every trainee under me to know their patient better than I do.

” His gaze flicked toward the exam room.

Back to her. “Children don’t always tell you what’s wrong with words, Dr. Jennie.

Sometimes it’s fear. Sometimes it’s silence.

” A pause. “And sometimes it’s a smile held a little too tight, hoping no one notices how nervous you actually are.

” Her chin lifted before she could stop it.

“I’m not nervous, Dr. Lin Xing.” “Good.” Already turning.

Already reaching for the next chart. “Then you can present the first patient at rounds. Eight o’clock.

Don’t be late.” He walked away without looking back.

His words followed her longer than she expected.

Sometimes it’s fear. Sometimes it’s silence.

She thought, unbidden, of a boy in Chennai — her very first ward rotation, six years ago, a seven-year-old who hadn’t cried once during an IV placement that made grown residents wince, and who she’d later found sobbing silently in a supply closet an hour afterward, not from the needle but because his mother had stepped out to take a phone call and he’d been certain, with the specific dread only children carry, that she wasn’t coming back.

Nobody else on the ward had noticed. Jennie had, only because she’d gone looking for gauze and happened to open the wrong door.

She’d sat with him until his mother returned.

Said almost nothing. It hadn’t required medicine at all, only attention — the simple, unglamorous act of noticing what a child couldn’t yet say out loud.

That’s the whole job, she thought now, watching Dr. Lin Xing’s white coat disappear around the corner.

He already knows that. That’s the part nobody warns you is the hardest to teach.

Jennie stood there, coffee cooling in her hand. “That was rude,” she whispered to herself. “So why is my pulse still doing that? Traitor. We do not reward this behavior.” “Talking to yourself already?”

She spun around. A nurse grinned at her, arms crossed, eyes bright with amusement.

Badge: Emma Okafor, RN. “That usually starts in week two,” Emma said.

“I’m ahead of schedule.” Emma laughed — big, warm, instantly likable.

“You must be Dr. Jennie.” “Depends. Am I already in trouble?” “Not yet.” Emma leaned in.

“He gave you a full paragraph. That’s basically a parade around here.

” “He told me not to make jokes.” “And you’re going to keep making them anyway, aren’t you.

” Jennie considered this seriously. “It’s a medical condition.

Incurable.” Emma grinned, looping an arm through hers. “Oh, I like you already.”

They walked together, Emma steering her down the hall like old friends.

“That’s Dr. Lin Xing,” Emma said. “Chinese father, Canadian mother. Melts for kids. Freezes for adults. Four years I’ve worked here — I’ve never once seen anything in between.

” Jennie glanced back down the corridor.

Melts for kids. Freezes for adults. Somewhere in the reckless little corner of her brain where all her worst ideas were born, a thought took quiet root.

I wonder what it would take to make him melt for everyone else too.

She shoved it down. Firmly. It refused to stay down.

By lunchtime, Jennie had survived rounds without a mistake.

Dr. Lin Xing’s only response had been one small nod — which Emma assured her was, from him, basically a standing ovation.

She’d also convinced a wailing toddler to take his medicine by promising one gummy bear for bravery and a second for not throwing the spoon.

She was feeling very pleased with herself when a lunch tray hit the table with a thud.

“Okay, new girl.” A woman dropped into the seat across from her, curly dark hair, easy confidence.

“Five hours in, and you’re already famous.

” “That feels medically impossible.” “Sophia. Fellow. Officially pediatrics. Unofficially head of hospital gossip.” “Jennie.” “Oh, I know. Emma’s been texting me since eight am. ” Jennie groaned. “Of course she has.”

Sophia counted on her fingers. “One — Dr. Ice gave you a full speech.” Jennie winced.

“Two — gummy bears. Genius. Stealing it.” “I accept payment in coffee.” “Three — half the nurses already love you.” “It’s been five hours, Sophia.

” “Five very productive hours.” Sophia leaned forward, eyes sparkling.

“So. Professional opinion. Our beloved department head?” Jennie stabbed a cucumber, considering.

“Handsome. Rude. Confusing.” A pause. “Possibly a robot programmed only to love children and hate joy.” Sophia burst out laughing.

“Most accurate diagnosis I’ve heard all year.

” “Don’t put that in his chart.” “No promises.”

By the end of her twelve-hour shift, Jennie’s feet ached and her ponytail had gone slightly lopsided, like it too had had a long day.

She collapsed into a chair in the residents’ lounge and pulled out her phone.

Apartment listings filled the screen. Her good mood evaporated.

Sophia dropped into the seat beside her. “That face says disaster.”

“I have thirty days to find an apartment. University housing says grad residence is for students. Apparently now that I’m a working physician, I should just instinctively know where to live.

Like a salmon.” Sophia peered at the listings.

“Options?” “A basement with no windows. A ‘cozy studio’ that is legally a closet. A place forty minutes away that may or may not be haunted.” “Ghosts don’t raise rent,” Sophia said solemnly.

Jennie laughed, and let her head fall back against the chair.

Six years in Toronto. Six years since she’d arrived scared, homesick, and stubborn enough to survive anyway.

Now she was finally living the dream she’d worked so hard for.

And she had no idea where she’d be sleeping in a month.

“You'll find something,” Sophia said, nudging her. “I hope so. Otherwise I’ll become the ghost of pediatrics.” “Radiology already has one. There may be a waiting list.” Jennie laughed again. This time, it felt lighter.

Three floors above her, behind a door marked Dr. Lin Xing, a serious, composed man finished his last chart in complete silence.

Downstairs, a stubborn, sleep-deprived, endlessly cheerful young doctor refreshed one more apartment listing.

Neither of them knew it yet. In thirty days, the distance between their two lives would shrink to exactly one wall.

And one wall, as both of them would soon learn, was nowhere near enough.