Anya
I’d almost made it to my car when his voice rang out across the quiet morning.
“Volkov!” he called after me, and I turned just to see him half-jogging to catch up. “Do you have that study handy? You snuck out before I could have you send it to me.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes as I hiked my bag farther up on my shoulder. “Oh, now you want to hear about the credible research I found.”
“Don’t be contrite,” he laughed, and I ignored the way it sent a chill down my spine.
I didn’t know I could have this… could have friendly banter with an attending.
“I’m always willing to hear about up-and-coming practices.
You just mentioned it while we were placing the catheter on that poor gentleman. ”
“So my timing was off!” I shot back, maybe grinning a little more than I should have.
“Careful there, hotshot. I’m still your boss.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.” I’d wrangled my phone out of my pocket as we stood there in the crisp dawn air. “I’ll text it to you.”
“Nah, just hand it over,” Desmond held his hand out expectantly, waiting for me to pull up the article. “I’ll decide if it’s worth sending over.”
He took the phone from my hand, and I ignored another round of chills as our fingers brushed. “Where did you find this?” He asked, thumb swiping through the webpage.
“I keep my finger on the pulse, Doctor. I’m not just a pretty face.”
A noise punched out from his mouth, which quickly, although not gracefully, shifted into a cough. I paused mid-step, one brow lifting as I watched him recover. “You okay there, Doctor? Should I grab a crash cart?”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, clearing his throat as he angled the phone away from me, as if that would somehow recover his dignity. “Didn’t realize you were adding ‘comedian’ to your résumé now.”
“Multifaceted,” I corrected easily, rocking back on my heels. “You should try it sometime.”
He huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh, eyes still scanning the article. The early morning light caught on the lines of his face — tired, but sharp in a way that hadn’t dulled even after twelve hours on his feet.
“You cited this in the middle of a catheter placement,” he said after a moment, glancing up at me over the edge of my phone. “Do you always make your arguments during the most inappropriate procedures possible, or was that a special occasion?”
I shrugged, entirely unapologetic. “You seemed bored.”
“I was not bored.”
“Mm,” I hummed, unconvinced. “Could’ve fooled me.”
His eyes narrowed just slightly — not irritated, not really. Something closer to amused disbelief. “You’re awfully comfortable talking back for someone who’s been on my shift for, what, a week?”
“Almost two,” I corrected too quickly. I smiled, sweet as I could manage. “Not that I’m counting.”
“Clearly.”
He handed my phone back then, but his fingers lingered for just a fraction longer than necessary before letting go. “This is actually… a decent piece of research,” he admitted, as if it cost him something.
“High praise,” I said, slipping my phone back into my pocket. “I’ll be sure to frame that.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I shot back. “Wouldn’t want you getting soft on me.”
Another huff, quieter this time. He dragged a hand over the back of his neck, glancing toward the parking lot like he’d just remembered where we were — standing too close, talking too easily, the hospital doors swinging shut behind us.
“Are you heading home?” he asked, the question casual in a way that felt… intentional.
“Eventually,” I said. “Thought I’d stand out here and soak in the post-shift glow a little longer. Really savor the exhaustion.”
“Thrilling plan.”
“I thought so.”
He shifted his weight, as if he were about to say something else — something heavier, perhaps — but then he just nodded once, stepping back.
“Send me the rest of your ‘credible research,’ Volkov,” he said, a hint of something back in his voice. “Preferably not mid-procedure next time.”
“No promises,” I replied lightly. “I perform best under pressure.”
His mouth twitched at that — just barely.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “I’m starting to see that.”