Chapter 6
DRINKING FROM A FIREHOSE
What’s that phrase mortals love to throw at medical students who chose wrong? Who drown under the weight of endless exams and endless patient lists? Who foolishly believed the cheap internet lore that getting into medical school was the hardest part?
Something about beating dead horses? No, that’s not right. They don’t have time for equestrianship.
Warm and Dead?
No, they hide the infamous Caribbean suicide cliff from students with thinly veiled ClockTok advertisements.
Oh, that’s right!
Clinical pearl #6: What do you call it when you ask the hot, surly resident to give you a chance for a doomed fake relationship?
Drinking from a firehose!
THANATOS
“So… you live like this, huh?”
To my left, chefs are frying steak and eggs. To my right, smiling bakers dish out yogurt parfaits and pastries. Ahead of me, Kane ignores my awestruck stare to walk over to the barista and ask for two iced drinks and egg bites.
He snuck us into the attending lounge!
He’d all but snatched me from the front entrance before rounds when I told him I wanted to meet, escorted me to the highest floor of the hospital, and swiped into the medical equivalent of a penthouse.
I can’t even focus on what he’s doing, looking around like I’ve reached Elysium. Sparkling sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows. Fresh paint and gleaming computers, free of dust, cracks, or connectivity issues, line every wall.
Outside, there’s a cozy brick balcony, umbrellas covering most of the rocking chairs from the shimmering sun.
I help myself to the plush couch, studying the birds hopping around for bread crumbs, wondering if this is how I’ll live one day. Relaxed, blissfully happy, and watching the birds dance.
Instead, I feel my heart lurch when the couch dips, Kane sitting soundlessly next to me. The wrinkled scrubs and messy hair make my stomach spin in ways I’d rather not acknowledge.
Is this just transference from him swooping in to save me? Or am I just slowly losing bits of my sanity from wasting my prime years studying, then chasing evil men?
My shoulders tense reflexively, and he sighs, scowl fading, scooting away to give me space.
What’s making that man scowl like that when he has the equivalent of paradise at his beck and call? I wish I could bring my menacing sorrows into the attending lounge.
I straighten out my posture. Whatever’s wrong with him, I need to tame it and make it into relationship material. He has to pretend to like me sometimes.
All the more reason I texted him today, asking if we can iron out the stipulations of our fake relationship, as good friends should do, and he kidnapped me in the hall before pre-rounds.
We’ve only got fifteen minutes, so this has to be fast.
I expect him to eat his half, but he holds out the drinks—one pomegranate pink, and the other spring green—toward me.
“Why are you holding out both?” I ask, picking my usual matcha.
He snorts, sounding irked and confused at the same time. “Why not?”
The morning light pours in from the glittering windows, backlighting him in a halo while he grimaces like he’s dying.
“Well, being friends doesn’t mean you have to buy me stuff,” I say, putting it down. The matcha is sickly sweet, making the air smell like burned sugar and nutty soil. “I’ve barely gotten you anything.”
He leans back, crossing one leg over his knee.
“Well,” he says petulantly, “I don’t expect you to have the money to feed yourself.”
My vexation spikes at his tone, but it’s not like I can argue. He’s right. I’m broke. I’m the student, not him.
“Besides,” he takes my hand in his—his is so much bigger, it nearly wraps all the way around mine—“You need protein with that sugar slop you’re obsessed with.”
“Eat,” he commands.
The egg bites are hot, almost scalding, in my palm.
My gratitude wars with my indignation at being told what to do, but I ultimately save myself from the incoming first-degree wound, muttering, “Thanks.”
I take a bite, swallowing hard.
No more stalling.
He’s the resident. I am the student. I’ve thought through my circumstances carefully.
He has access to opulent wealth, generational connections, and Ivory-Tower-trained hospital lawyers. I do not.
He is employed here, D.O. degree in hand, and can flee at any point. I cannot.
He knows this is a bad idea. I pretend I do not.
We need a contract to protect us both.
I level my voice, injecting all business into my pitch when I set down my eggs. No fun, no casual, no pep. “But that’s why we need the terms and conditions of our fake relationship.”
He chuckles, stretching out his arms behind his head.
My blood heats. Laughing? Now? I’m trying to be serious.
This man is impossible.
Whatever. My mother raised me to be kind to sinners, so I offer him the other set of egg bites. The beast must be fed to be tamed, right?
“If you’re going to be hangry, you’d better eat,” I argue.
His eyebrows raise.
I withdraw slowly. Great. This is going splendidly.
“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed,” he says, unimpressed. “Unless I’m working 24 hours straight, I fast during my shift.”
I make a mental note of that, subtly scrutinizing his form beneath his scrubs. No wonder he’s more muscle than personality. I hate it when discipline yields beautiful results.
I take another sip of my matcha, the bitter earthiness tainting my thoughts. I wonder if he thinks hanging out with my puffy self is a downgrade. Maybe that’s why he’s so difficult all the time.
“Okay, back to the subject at hand,” I interject. “Do you think faking a relationship is a match violation?”
“I couldn’t find anything about it, so no,” he says brusquely.
“You mean nobody else is stupid enough to attempt this,” I respond, swiveling around to see him better. He props his feet, which are covered in soiled sneakers, onto the polished mahogany table, eyes locking on mine.
“We are, little surgeon.”
When he calls me that, I pretend not to notice the sudden quickening of my pulse.
It’s been too long since my last interesting relationship. Any reaction I have is just a biological response to flattery. Nothing more. After all, I am committed to being Kane’s friend first.
“So if we get found out—”
“We’ll be labeled insane, effectively banned from entering the match again.”
“But if it works—”
“I match, and you get evil spawn off your back for an entire year. And a chance to match away from Rusty.”
“And you thought the attending lounge was the safest place for this conversation because…”
“It’s 4:30 in the morning, little surgeon. None of them are here yet.”
I take a brief look around the room, and he’s right. It’s empty, save the chefs and one lone janitor outside, all of whom no doubt have better things to do than get close enough to eavesdrop.
“Why are you allowed in here, then, intern?” I ask him.
His blank demeanor crinkles as he pulls out three shiny badges from his scrub pocket.
“Being a nepo baby has its perks,” he says, gracing me with one of his rare smiles.
Despite myself, I smile back.
“Does Doctor Daddy know you stole his badge?”
“He knows he has three copies,” he says, showing me their faces, “one for me, one for Jade, and his personal one I’m not allowed to touch.” He reaches into his shirt pocket, putting his father’s back in. “You can have Jade’s copy. Use it so you don’t starve.”
I hide my shock at the casual excess of one family having three attending lounge badges in the same hospital. Jade’s going to kill me if I take hers, but… “Does the hospital know you have three badges for the same man?”
“The hospital can’t function without him,” he says wryly. “Though I imagine Jade won’t be happy she has to use her allowance to buy food now, so I would find ways to eat discreetly.”
I make a mental note never to wake sleeping beast number two, and to time my clandestine food thieving.
Unless…
“We still haven’t talked about what our relationship will look like,” I tell him. My stomach flips. I hate awkward conversations.
“Correct,” he agrees.
“I have some ideas,” I tell him, and he nods.
“First,” I say, waving the matcha around, “you’ve gotten me enough.”
“Veto,” he says immediately. “You’re a student; you shouldn’t have to pay for anything.”
Veto? What the fuck?
“What do you mean, veto?”
“This is my fake relationship, too,” he says. “Besides, food has a negligible cost.”
“It does when it’s from MoonMonies in the attending lounge!”
“I don’t engage in poverty finance, little surgeon. Next item on the agenda.”
This man is truly… something else. Somewhere between a brick wall and the most stubborn mule you’ll ever meet.
I put down my drink, steeling myself to continue. “Okay, well… do you want this arrangement to extend outside of the hospital?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Like, do you want to pretend to date while we’re in here, and live our separate lives outside of the hospital?”
“I never leave this place,” he says. “There is no separate life.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, metaphorically, then.”
“I mean, I’d rather my fake girlfriend not date around,” he says sarcastically. “But I wouldn’t stop you.”
I huff out a breath. “My love life is in shambles, so that won’t be a problem. We can stay committed to each other, then.”
“Great,” he says. “Fake cheating’s off the table.”
“Of course,” I reply, just as sarcastically.
“What else?” he asks, slouching and closing his eyes.
I bite my lip, debating how best to go about this.
He spins, pivoting his legs out like he’s about to extend them lengthwise and take a nap.
At my hesitation, he says, “Spit it out, doctor.”
“Intimacy,” I say hesitantly. “How do you feel about it?”
He falls off the couch, slamming into the ground with a hard thud.
“Kane!” I squeal, rushing over to help him.
“Intimacy?” he asks, like it’s the first time he’s heard of the concept. He’s broken out in a cold sweat on the ground.
“Yeah,” I repeat, crouching to extend a hand, but he waves me off, wobbling to a stand.
“Not in the hospital,” he rushes out.
Heat rises to my cheeks. Huh? Did he think I meant right now?
“No, not like that!” I stammer, scrambling to save this conversation. “I mean, like, in general? How far do you want us to go in touching each other? I’m waiting until marriage, so we don’t need to live together or have any sex for our relationship to be believable—”
His eyebrows hit his hairline as he runs a hand through his hair.
“We do whatever you feel like doing,” he says.
“Yes, but are you willing—”
He scoffs, as if he can’t believe what I just said. “Any man is going to be willing, Persephone.”
“Well, last I heard, you were a demon, not a man.”
“Yes, and even less virtuous. Carry on, angel.”
My teeth grind together. Why is he so—
“That’s not what I meant. Consent is very important.”
He returns to being prostrate on the couch, rubbing his eyebrows. “You have my consent for everything.”
“So if I jumped on you right now—”
“Weird kink, but okay.”
I sigh, trying to reroute the conversation back to something that makes any semblance of sense.
“Okay, but what if we came up with a system?”
His lips curve up. “You want a safe word? Already?”
I throw a pillow at him.
“Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“You’re the one who brought up intimacy,” he laughs. “Don’t blame me.”
“Well, we’re bound to be in public and unsure of what the other wants at some point,” I say.
“Let me show you. It’ll be simple. When we’re together, and neither of us is sure the other is going too far, you can squeeze my hand or shoulder before doing something, and if I’m uncomfortable, I’ll pull away. And vice versa. Here.”
I pick up his hand in mine and hold it up to my face, squeezing lightly. With a mirthful smile, he squeezes back.
I press my lips to the back of his hand, kissing it softly, then return it to the couch.
He grins, eyes crinkling. “Cute.”
The compliment registers seconds before the door to the lounge slams open, and we both flinch.
I barely have time to recognize him, and then Dr. Goodyear barges in, eyes roving for his son.
Kane freezes.
I turn to him, eyes trying to meet his.
Don’t you dare use me as a shield, I accuse mentally, knowing he’ll see us any moment.
He smirks, hearing me just fine, then leans in, hand brushing my thigh. I place my hand lightly over his, applying just enough pressure to show approval when he hesitates, and then his lips are on my cheek.
For a moment, we aren’t in a hospital anymore—the air becomes electric; the sun sparkles through the pristine windows, and even my heart flutters as my breath catches with the surprise of it.
And then the moment shatters.
“KANE GOODYEAR!” A deep voice roars. “EXPLAIN WHY YOUR SISTER WOKE ME UP AT 5 O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING BECAUSE SHE CAN’T FEED HER DAMN SELF—oh.”
The rage on Dr. Goodyear’s face stops abruptly when he sees Kane’s lips pull away from my cheek, melting into confusion, then curiosity, then acceptance, all in one second.
His marching ceases into a standoff instead.
“Hello, Dr. Goodyear,” I say timidly. I keep my eyes trained on Dr. Goodyear, but, carefully, praying he remembers our conversation, wind my fingers through Kane’s, prickling when I make contact with his rigid, flexed knuckles.
After a second, they relax.
Kane’s hand unfurls, revealing two I.D.s, and I glance down briefly, taking the one I want. Standing up quickly, I excuse myself from whatever familial bloodbath between the Goodyears is soon to follow. “Sorry, Kane let me in—”
“That’s fine, Persephone,” he says, waving me off.
His dismissive hand looks just like Kane’s. “Don’t be late to rounds, or Dr. Metrodora will have my head,” he says.
“Of course, Dr. Goodyear,” I tell him, glancing at Kane as I exit.
Kane winks.
At the last minute, I seize the extra drink, too.
I wrench away, catching only whispers of their conversation, Dr. Goodyear’s accusations landing like bullets. He grills Kane over why didn’t you warn me, and your shift is about to start, boy, and have you ever met a decaffeinated teenage girl?
I can’t shake the unsettling feeling that Kane’s eyes burn into my back on the whole walk out.
Worse—
I leave grinning like a fiend, pomegranate drink in hand, Kane’s stolen I.D. in my pocket.