Chapter 9
POV: Marina
My heart hammers so hard I swear he can feel it through his chest.
If he leaned in, I wouldn’t stop him.
If I leaned in, he wouldn’t stop me.
The doors slide open with a cheerful ding.
Reality crashes back.
“Dr. Meyer!”
I flinch and step away as if burned.
The hospital director stands outside, flanked by a maintenance technician. He looks relieved and slightly panicked.
“I heard the elevator stalled. I’m so sorry—of all days, and with you inside.” He laughs awkwardly. “We can’t have our cardio god stuck in a metal box.”
I force a smile. My hands are shaking.
“Everything’s fine,” I say.
Brennan steps out behind me, composed, unreadable.
My heart doesn’t slow for the rest of the day.
They gather in the conference room, tired but buzzing from their second full day. I give them advice on studying, on rotations, on survival.
When I reach Brennan, my mind goes blank.
He doesn’t need advice. He doesn’t need correction. He’s already brilliant.
So I give him something harder.
“Push yourself beyond what’s comfortable,” I say. “Don’t coast on talent. Mastery requires obsession.”
His eyes flicker. He knows exactly who that sentence is really for.
Sarah clears her throat.
“Stokes,” she says, hopeful, bright. “Some of us are going for drinks tonight again. You should come.”
He smiles politely. “I’m going to study.”
“You always say that.” She laughs, leaning closer. “Just one drink. With me, please.”
Her tone was soft, and even I hated the feeling, I was kind of jealous. And I just buried it.
He meets her gaze, kind but firm.
“I’m not interested in dating right now.”
Her smile falters, but she nods. “Right. Of course.”
She leaves with grace, but I see the disappointment in her shoulders.
The room empties.
It’s just Brennan and me.
“She seems like a good girl,” I say lightly. “Smart. Ambitious.”
“She is.”
“You should go out with her.”
He looks at me like I’ve suggested something absurd.
“There’s someone else I’d invite out.”
My pulse spikes.
“I told you,” I say quietly, “this is strictly professional. I can’t give you anything more.”
He steps closer—but stops at a careful distance.
“I know.” His voice is calm. “That’s why I didn’t kiss you in the elevator.”
My breath catches.
“If there’s going to be another step, it has to come from you. You were very clear about boundaries.”
I look away. “ I won′t give another step. I’m not ready. You don’t understand. Grief—”
He shakes his head gently.
“This is not my business, but it′s clear to me. You tell yourself it’s grief.” His voice is soft but unyielding. “But you’ve been through the worst already. What you have now is fear. And guilt. And a belief that you don’t deserve happiness again.”
The words land too accurately.
“You do,” he continues quietly. “You deserve it. Even if you’re not ready to believe that.”
Then he turns and leaves.
And somehow, that hurts more than if he had kissed me.
----
My phone lights up while I’m still at the hospital, pretending to read labs and not replay the elevator moment on loop.
Brennan:
Found something at my parents’ house.
A photo loads.
It’s a notebook. Spiral-bound. Worn. The page is filled with hearts. Scribbled names.
Marina + Brennan written over and over in messy teenage handwriting.
I stare at it longer than I should.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
This number is for professional communication only.
I type it.
I stare at it.
I erase it.
Instead, I write:
Me: You could have written this yesterday. How do I know it’s old?
He replies instantly.
Brennan: Because I don’t draw hearts anymore. I just fix them.
You can ask your brother he always knew.
Another photo.
Another notebook.
A stick figure of a girl with long hair labeled Marina and a taller boy labeled Brennan.
A ridiculous little comic of them getting married.
I laugh out loud in the middle of the nurses’ station.
God. He was adorable.
And apparently… devoted.
That night, my parents cook too much food again. Alex joins us, complaining about traffic and bragging about a new contract.
Wine loosens my shoulders. My mind drifts back to Brennan.
“So,” I say casually, stabbing a piece of chicken. “Brennan was looking at me kind of… differently at the barbecue.”
Alex chokes on his drink.
“Differently?” he croaks.
My mother freezes. My father pretends not to listen.
Alex laughs—too loud. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” I say, pretending indifference. “I just noticed.”
He stares at me like I’ve asked if the sky is blue.
“Marina,” he says slowly, “he’s been in love with you since forever.”
I blink. “That’s dramatic.”
“No, that’s factual.” He leans back. “He used to follow you around like a lost puppy. He cried when you left for college. He cried when you came back engaged.”
My fork stops mid-air.
“He cried?”
“Yes.” Alex rolls his eyes. “He was obsessed. I found him in his room once just staring at your old photo like he was in a tragic indie movie.”
The room goes quiet.
My chest tightens.
Everything he told me in the elevator… was true.
Later, in my childhood bedroom, I sit on my bed with my laptop open—apartment listings glowing on the screen. I need to move soon, I can’t stay in my parents house forever.
I should focus. But the wine of the dinner was losing my senses.
Instead, I text him.
Me: I asked Alex. He confirmed it. You were really obsessed with me.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Brennan: Was.
A beat.
Brennan: And still am.
My heart stumbles.
I don’t reply.
I close my phone and stare at apartment photos I don’t see.
Because if I answer him now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pretend this is professional anymore.
***
It’s been a week.
A week of pretending Brennan doesn’t exist.
A week of pretending my body doesn’t react when he walks past in those infuriating blue scrubs.
A week of pretending I didn’t laugh at his messages, didn’t feel something fragile and dangerous reopen in my chest.
Avoidance is a strategy.
Unfortunately, he’s my resident.
So today, I have no choice.
“Next patient,” I say, flipping the chart.
The name doesn’t register.
The diagnosis does.
Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. Genetic mutation confirmed. Family history positive.
The room tilts.
My fingers tighten around the file until the paper bends. My breath stalls, trapped somewhere between memory and denial.
Jonathan’s chart looked like this once.
Jonathan’s handwriting annotated margins like he could argue with the genome itself.
Jonathan’s heart.
I close the folder too hard.
The residents flinch.
“We’ll take a break,” I say, voice clipped. “Ten minutes. Be back in the hallway.”
They scatter.
I don’t look at Brennan.
If I do, I’ll break in front of them.
My office door clicks shut behind me.
I sit at my desk and stare at nothing.
My chest burns—not physically. Emotionally. The phantom echo of monitors. Code blues. Flatlines.
You don’t forget the sound of the heart that taught you everything failing anyway.
A knock.
“Not now,” I say.
The door opens.
Of course it’s him.
He holds a coffee.
“Go away,” I mutter.
He doesn’t.
He steps inside and sets the cup on my desk like a peace offering.
“It was his disease,” he says quietly.
The words slice clean.
I don’t look at him.
“Yes.”
Silence stretches.
“How did you—” My voice cracks. I clear it. “How did you know?”
He hesitates. “My parents told me. When your parents told them about Jonathan. I was already in med school. Cardio modules.”
I swallow.
“You knew, and you still chose cardiology?”
He tilts his head. “You think I’d avoid it because of that?”
I laugh bitterly. “No. I think I’m avoiding everything.”
He steps closer.
“You said I was avoiding you, and that was not grief,” I snap. Defensive. Reactive. “So this is not grief for you?”
His jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm.
“I said you’re lying to yourself about not deserving happiness. This—” he gestures to the file “—this is grief. You’re allowed grief. That’s not what I was talking about.”
My eyes burn.
“Stop,” I whisper.
He doesn’t.
“This is sadness. It’s normal. It’s human. It’s love that didn’t disappear when Jonathan did.” His voice softens. “Avoiding me is something else.”
My breath shudders.
Tears spill before I can stop them.
God. I hate crying.
He crosses the room in two steps and wraps his arms around me.
I freeze.
Then I collapse into him.
My forehead presses against his chest. His hand rests on the back of my head, grounding, steady. No pressure. No expectation.
Just presence.
I cry against my resident.
The irony tastes bitter.
“I’m your attending,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t—”
“You’re human,” he interrupts gently.
I laugh through tears. “This is unprofessional.”
“This is compassion.”
I sniff. “I’m weak.”
“You’re grieving.”
Silence settles around us. He smells like clean soap and hospital antiseptic and something warm that shouldn’t exist in this building.
“I can take this patient,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to be in that room today.”
“You’re a resident.”
“And you’re Dr. Marina Meyer.” He smiles faintly. “You are not just a cardio god, you trained cardio gods. You can supervise me from your office. I’ll report everything.”
I hesitate.
Then nod.
“Thank you.”
He hands me the coffee.
His fingers brush mine.
He leaves.
After it.
I sit alone, holding the warm cup, staring at the chart on my desk.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe grief and avoidance aren’t the same thing.
Maybe I’ve been using one to justify the other.
And maybe the worst part is that he sees me clearer than I see myself.