Chapter 3
THREE
DEAN
October, New York City
Taylan Carter???!???!?
Ah. My dear sister had seen the official plus-one registration I’d put in via the wedding platform. Her text, punctuation mark massacre and all, stood out like a neon sign among a dozen other notifications, most of them call-schedule changes and news alerts.
Yes, I replied, rolling out of bed with the enthusiasm of a hungover intern dragging themself to an eight a.m. surgical audit. Not my style, but I’d seen it happen.
Charley responded almost immediately—another avalanche of punctuation, this one even less coherent. A string of emojis followed, and I chose to protect my brain by foregoing any interpretation of what she was trying to tell me. Let her stew a bit.
Predictably, my mom called before I was even done with my first cup of coffee. All right, here we go—time to activate my acting skills. I pressed accept.
“So.” My mom turned the word into a sentence. “Taylan Carter?”
Yep, subtlety was not her style. It ran in the family. “Tay,” I corrected. Steam rose above my coffee like miniature ghosts fading into thin air. “He’s a junior doctor—final year as a resident. Did his CT rotation last spring.”
It was the official how-we-met story that Tay and I had settled on yesterday, through several exchanged texts while he’d pulled a long day shift. Sticking close to the truth had seemed like a smart plan.
“He worked under you, then?” Mom asked, curious and slightly muffled. I could just picture her getting ready for the office, putting in her earrings and juggling papers and a suit jacket, phone wedged between cheek and shoulder.
“I wasn’t his supervisor or anything. We became friends after his rotation, and then, uh. More.” I’d have to practice for the lie to roll more easily off my tongue. “We’re keeping it quiet, though. Figured we’d delay the whispers and HR paperwork a little longer.”
The rustling stopped on her end. “Would it be an issue, honey?”
Not as such—even though I’d never thought to personally check the code of conduct, I’d seen colleagues date. Hardly shocking; when your whole life happens inside a hospital, your romantic options mostly shrink to whoever also smells faintly of antiseptic.
“It wouldn’t be ideal,” I said, and that much was true. “He rotated through my department, so technically, there was a power imbalance. Not that we were involved then, but that line’s blurry enough it could raise some eyebrows. Half the hospital runs on caffeine and gossip.”
“I see, yes.” She hummed. “And I know how much your reputation matters to you, honey. He must be quite something to make you take that risk.”
“He’s…” I trailed off and deliberately considered Tay’s bright smiles, his ability to laugh at himself, his easy charm and wit. Was I the gushing kind of boyfriend? I decided I wasn’t. “He’s one of the good ones, Mom. He… understands me.”
“Then I’m sure I’ll love him.” The simple pleasure in her voice reminded me just why I went to all this trouble.
We chatted for a minute longer, about an impending restructure in her department and James’s ambitious plans for remodeling the house once he retired next year, then hung up since she needed to dash.
I moved through my own routine, stepping out into the soft morning light half an hour later.
The city was pulsing with life—busses hissed, heels clattered, a power-walking man swore into his phone while nearly crashing into a cyclist. I wove through the madness towards the nearest subway station, and it wasn’t until I waited on the platform that I glanced at my phone again.
A message from Tay lit up the screen, part of a thread he’d named “Fifty Questions to Fake-Fall in Love.” Caps and all. God help me.
Question 2: Would you like to be famous? If so, for what?
I could practically see the grin behind it. A reluctant smile tugged at me, and yeah, okay, I could lean into this joke. It was fine. Yesterday’s question had been who I’d have as a dinner guest if it could be anyone. Tay had opened with David Attenborough—
just to hear him narrate the soup course. The man’s a legend. Voice of my childhood.
I’d countered with da Vinci and a throwaway comment about the olive oil mafia.
Today, it was my turn to answer first. I sighed, mostly to myself, then tapped out,
Not famous-famous. But if they ever name a technique after me—like Dean’s bypass, or the Dean maneuver—I wouldn’t be mad.
Emotional homework. Seriously. My answer was safe enough, though—a hint of ambition, yeah, but nothing too revealing. I sent it and got on the train.
Tay’s reply came through just after I’d exited, immediately swept up in a stream of morning commuters on the way back to the surface.
Okay, it said, confession time!
A wink emoji followed the utterly unnecessary exclamation mark.
When I was like fifteen or so, I wanted to be a rock star. Liked the idea of people actually noticing me, I guess. Now? I’m good. I like what I do, like making a difference, even kind of like the rush. I’d just also like to stop planning meals around what’s on sale.
I read it twice, mindful not to bump into people as something soft unfolded underneath my amusement.
His honesty felt… unsettling in a way that scraped against old instincts to keep things neat, compartmentalized.
Like there was no shame in admitting to silly dreams or financial struggles.
It would be easier if he’d just play it cool—and yet.
You need a care package? Just say the word. Pretty sure letting my fake boyfriend starve would be poor form.
Was I flirting? No, this wasn’t flirting. Just… nutritional concern. Platonic.
Aww, thanks.
He’d tagged on another emoji—a smiley, this time.
And really, it’s not THAT bad. I just like to exaggerate for comedic effect.
Duly noted
I replied, then wondered if it might come across as cold.
I did sometimes, usually when I hesitated too long and the silence landed oddly.
While emojis weren’t really my style, I stuck a winking one on the end anyway that felt unnatural, like a borrowed jacket I didn’t know how to wear. I sent it anyway.
Tay sent a laughing one back, which I interpreted as “we’re good.” There was no clear reason to prolong our exchange, so I tucked my phone away and continued on my way to meet an irritatingly smug Gregg before scrubbing in.
Tay would be in touch tomorrow with the next question.
I’d always aimed for an air of swift professionalism at work. Until Tay, it hadn’t occurred to me how it might emphasize the distance between ranks.
Intimidating.
The ward rounds were a well-rehearsed dance, two brand-new juniors trailing behind me in a nervous flutter of white coats.
I didn’t bark orders, not exactly, but I expected people to keep up and didn’t sugarcoat things—efficient, not unkind.
But maybe… Well. The way one of them scrambled to find a pen mid-round while the other just about flinched every time I said her name?
Yeah, I might’ve drifted a smidge too far into “robotic taskmaster” territory.
I asked the girl to present Jack, a seventy-two-year-old patient—recent heart attack, borderline heart failure, not the easiest case.
She nailed the medication list, flagged a key lab result I thought she might miss, and for once didn’t speak like she was asking permission to breathe.
“Good job,” I said. Her gaze darted up, eyes wide, then quickly dropped again.
We moved along.
Bed three: Brooke. She sat like royalty on her hospital throne, oxygen tubing looped carelessly around her neck, rapid-pace videos on her phone declaring indifference to the world around her. At our approach, her eyes lifted lazily from her screen.
“Oh, good,” she drawled. “My favorite interrogator and his ducklings. Must be my lucky day.”
“Charming as ever, Brooke.” I flipped through a chart that had become familiar territory.
Eighteen, once a junior track star, she was now more familiar with monitors and IVs than medal podiums. While not strictly my patient—technically she sat under congenital and heart failure—I’d been following her since the transplant discussion started. “Vitals stable. Any symptoms?”
“Boredom, mostly.”
I regarded her with a slightly raised eyebrow, then glanced at the other junior doc. “QT interval—what matters?”
He cleared his throat. “If it’s prolonged—uh, especially past five hundred, it can trigger serious arrhythmias. Sometimes fatal ones.”
I nodded at him. “Good.”
Brooke sighed, all dramatics. “Still here. Amazing.” Her gaze swung back to the poor boy. “You. Where are you from? Not here, I bet.”
Ah, hell. I had a bit of a soft spot for her, painfully familiar with the defensive walls she put up—built brick by brick with careful disdain, no cracks that would let even a hint of vulnerability show. Thanks, Dad. But this? Not okay.
The boy stammered for a breath, then straightened and seemed to intentionally thicken his subtle South Asian accent. “You’d lose. Born and raised in Manhattan.”
Good for him. Was this what Tay dealt with every day? Jesus.
“Everyone’s from somewhere,” I said mildly, yet with a pointed look at Brooke. “Let’s keep it civil, yeah?”
“Sure.” She rolled her eyes, and irritating as it was, it reminded me she’d been in and out of hospital for three years now and formally listed for transplant a month ago when her deterioration became serious, symptoms mostly too severe to manage at home.
Christ, she was only eighteen. She slept poorly, didn’t eat well, and was done with everything.
While the juniors hurried ahead to the next room, I lingered for a moment in the doorway.
“Forget something?” She frowned, a guarded challenge in her gaze.
“Not exactly.” I glanced along the corridor to make sure no one was within hearing range, then turned back to her. “Just a little reminder, okay? Having a tough time doesn’t give you license to be cruel.”
It was like shutters coming down, her expression going blank. “Noted.”