Desmond
In the crowded gala space, I told myself I wouldn’t look for her.
That was the lie I wrapped around myself as the ballroom filled, as donors and board members drifted past in tailored suits and practiced smiles. This wasn’t the time or the place.
So I shook hands. I accepted congratulations. I nodded at the right moments and said the right things about funding and impact and the future of emergency medicine. I was very good at this version of myself.
And then, God help me, Anya walked in.
She didn’t see me at first. She stood with Liza near the bar, her body angled in a way that said she was listening but not fully present.
She wore a dark dress that skimmed rather than clung, deceptively modest until she shifted her weight and the fabric caught the light, revealing the quiet confidence of her posture.
Her hair was down. That alone felt personal, as if the cascading red locks of hair were on display just for me.
I’d only ever seen it pulled back, efficient, contained.
This version of her was neither.
I took in the line of her neck, the delicate hollow at her throat, the way she laughed and then pressed her lips together as if immediately aware she’d given too much away.
My body reacted before my mind caught up, a low, unwelcome heat curling through my abdomen.
Annoying. Inappropriate. Entirely predictable.
My chest tightened.
A week.
A week.
A full week of clipped professionalism, of passing each other in hallways with nothing but a nod.
Of standing shoulder to shoulder in trauma without looking too long, too closely.
Distance had not cooled anything. If anything, it had sharpened it to a blade — a blade pressed against my throat each moment I spent in her presence.
I almost slipped the other day when she told me about Patel. I’d wanted to tuck her away from the chauvinistic tendencies of the hospital and punch Frank in the face, all at the same time.
But now, I stood across the room, watching her accept a drink from the bartender, her fingers brushing the stem of the glass.
Watched her thank him, polite and distracted, then turn back toward Liza with a faint crease between her brows.
She looked tired. Beautifully so. Earnestly.
Like someone who carried too much and refused to set it down.
I didn’t approach her. Didn’t interrupt.
I let conversations end naturally, drifted closer by degrees, always with my back half-turned, always plausibly engaged elsewhere.
Close enough to see the way she smoothed her dress when she thought no one was watching.
Close enough to hear her voice when she thanked a donor, polite and careful and very unlike the woman who had pushed me against my own desk a week ago.
She still hadn’t seen me.
The announcement came then. Applause. My name, attached to the grant, the so-called ‘future of the department.’
As I stepped up to the podium, I found her in the crowd on instinct. Her head lifted at my name, eyes tracking the sound until they landed on me.
The moment stretched.
Recognition.
Stillness.
Something unreadable crossing her face.
She didn’t smile.
Good, I thought stupidly.
Bad, immediately after.
I finished the speech on muscle memory alone, thanked the foundation, said something earnest about mentorship and opportunity that felt like a quiet act of self-sabotage. When the applause swelled again, I stepped down and turned—
And she was there.
Not directly in front of me. Off to the side. Waiting. It took everything in my power to suppress my grin. “You didn’t tell me you’d be here,” she said. Her voice was calm. Too calm.
“I hadn’t decided if I was coming or not,” I replied, lying through my teeth. The minute Liza had told me that my girl was up for an award, I knew I would be there.
She glanced back towards her friend, who was very deliberately pretending to be fascinated by a centerpiece. “They’re announcing the scholarships in about an hour,” Anya said. “I feel like my heart’s in my stomach and my stomach’s in my ass.”
“Good,” I laughed. The word came out rougher than intended. “That means it’s yours. There’s not a doctor here that deserves it more than you do, Anya.”
Her eyes flicked to mine. Just for a second. “Careful,” she breathed. Her fingers pulled at my tie, adjusting it. “That almost sounded like praise.” She smoothed the fabric, fingers lingering just a beat too long on my chest.
I felt the floor tilt at the casual intimacy. I was almost certain that she could hear the rapid beat of my heart. “I’ve been careful for a week, Anya,” I said, just as quietly. “It hasn’t helped. Let me praise you.”
Silence pressed in around us, softened by music and laughter and the illusion of distance. We were two people standing too close in a crowded room, and it felt infinitely more dangerous than my office ever had.
“I didn’t know you were avoiding me,” she said, cheeks flushed.
I laughed once under my breath. “I was trying not to ruin your life.”
Her expression softened then, just a fraction. “You’re doing a terrible job of pretending I don’t already exist in it.”
There it was. The truth. Simple. Unadorned and unforgiving. Across the room, someone called my name. A board member. An obligation. A reason to walk away. And yet… I didn’t move.
“Anya,” I said instead, lowering my voice. “If I don’t walk away right now, I won’t.”
Her breath caught. I saw it. Felt it. “Then maybe stop circling whatever this is,” she said. I could already see her steeling herself for my answer. “Or admit why you are. I’m a big girl, Des.”
I looked at her — really looked — and understood with sickening clarity that the panic hadn’t been about risk. But then she turned on her heel, walking away from me. And part of me swore I would never make that mistake again.
Forty-five minutes later, and I was halfway through a conversation with a donor when I saw her turn away from Liza and drift toward the bar.
She looked relieved to be momentarily alone. I told myself I was going to get a drink. Of course it was a lie — I moved toward her.
I didn’t touch her. I wasn’t reckless enough for that.
But I stepped close, close enough that I felt the heat of her through the thin space between us, close enough that the faint scent of her perfume reached me.
Something clean. Something warm. Something that had no business being this intoxicating.
She stiffened, just slightly.
“There’s a staff corridor behind the east wing,” I whispered, my voice pitched low and even, the same tone I used when a room was spiraling and I needed it to listen. “Past the restrooms. Third door on the left.”
Her breath caught. Too quiet to be dramatic, but I felt it: a tiny hitch that traveled straight through me. “I’ll be there for the next ten minutes,” I continued, eyes forward, posture immaculate to anyone watching. “If you decide you’re done being good.”
Her fingers tightened around her clutch, knuckles paled. “This is wildly inappropriate,” she murmured, still not looking at me.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Which is why I won’t follow you.” A pause. The band changed songs. Someone laughed nearby, loud and oblivious. “And why you’ll leave on your own,” I added. “If you come.”
She swallowed. I watched the motion at her throat, felt the answering pull low in my body, sharp and insistent now. “And if I don’t?” she asked.
I turned my head just enough that my mouth hovered near her ear, close enough that the words felt like a secret pressed into skin. “Then I’ll stand in that hallway,” I said, “and spend the rest of the night thinking about what I did to lose you.” I stepped back before she could answer.
The distance felt immediate. Brutal.
I adjusted my jacket. Smoothed my expression. Became, once again, the man everyone expected me to be. When I looked back at her, she was still standing there. But her gaze had drifted toward the exit. And the glass in her hand trembled, just slightly.