Chapter 18 #2
Before I can dig myself in deeper, the phone rings. He answers quickly, all business. “Yeah, okay. Send them in.”
He hangs up and turns to me. “You ready? I want you to take more of the lead. A few of the cases are straightforward. I’ll do the first one, just so you see the pacing and flow. Then the next one’s yours. I’ll take notes, ask questions when needed, but it’s your show.”
My heart leaps a little, but I nod. “Okay.”
And we do it. Patient after patient, one case at a time. We run late, of course, we always do, but that’s part of the job. If you’re running a clinic on schedule, you’re probably rushing people. And I refuse to make anyone feel like they didn’t matter.
Brant never interrupts me. He listens and watches.
At first, I’m hyperaware of his presence, every note he takes, changes in his posture.
But as the hours pass, something changes.
His silence isn’t judgment. It’s trust. And the realization relaxes me.
By the third patient, I’m not second-guessing myself anymore. I’m just working and doing it well.
By the time the last patient leaves, it’s well past five. I’m exhausted but energized at the same time, like I got a second wind. He rubs a hand over his face and down his jaw.
“You still good to work on the protocol committee?”
“Yeah, I’m down,” I say. “But maybe we need fuel. Coffee… or food. Or both.”
He stretches. “How about I order something in? I figure we’re going to be here a while.”
I hesitate for a beat. “I might just let my dad know. You know… that I’ll be late.”
I’m not sure why I say it, but I do. Maybe it’s a habit. Maybe it’s a way to let Brant know I’m not rushing home for anyone else.
Pulling out my phone, I type out a quick text.
Me: Don’t wait up. Working late.
At the same time, Brant says, “I’m ordering Chinese. What would you like?”
“Dim Sum,” I say.
“Bold choice.” He taps his order into the app. “I’m a noodle guy.”
I stand. “I’ll make us another coffee. You keep adding to the list of things we have in common. I might need caffeine to keep up.”
He smiles, and it’s softer this time. “You did great today, you know?”
I don’t say anything back. I just head out, hiding my flushed cheeks.
But this time, the compliment settles differently.
It’s not the polite acknowledgement he gave me weeks ago when I first started.
It’s not the distant professionalism of our early days.
This feels… personal. Like he sees me… Not just as a colleague, but as someone he’s genuinely proud of.
And that makes me ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
When I return, he’s taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and there’s something about him being a little undone that does something to me. But I shove that thought away and focus on the committee meeting and drinking my coffee. This time, I sit on the other side of the table.
He’s in the middle of loosening his tie, one side of his collar flipped up. I reach out and smooth it down, my fingers brushing against the stubble on his neck. His skin is warm.
I can’t help noticing the line of his throat, the movement of his Adam’s apple.
“Sorry,” I murmur, pulling my hand back. “I just… your collar was flipped.”
My hand hovers in front of him too long, the other still resting lightly on his shoulder.
“You always seem so straight,” I mumble, then instantly regret how that sounds.
He smirks. Like he can tell I’m flustered. And it makes butterflies swarm my stomach.
“It’s fine. Relax.”
His phone chimes.
“Dinner’s here. I’ll be one sec.”
“Okay, I’ll get started.”
I put our mugs away and then turn to the committee paperwork.
It’s good that the moment is broken so I can regroup.
I need to get my head back on the task and off him, but it doesn’t work.
Figuring out where to begin takes way longer than it should, because my mind keeps drifting back to him, even as I start writing down some bullet points we can follow.
When he returns, carrying two steaming paper bags of Chinese, tie off, hair a bit messier, I swear he looks… different. Less formal, more approachable, and dangerously sexy. My stomach flips.
He sets the bags on the table. “Let it cool. It’s scorching.”
I show him the outline I made, and he nods, impressed. “Perfect. Let’s start with the first one. Shouldn’t take long with two smart people, right?”
His flirty wink sends a blip to my heartbeat.
We dive into the work, moving from subject to subject, checking off each item my father asked for.
But I can’t stop sneaking peeks at him, and I remind myself I shouldn’t be enjoying our knees resting comfortably against each other’s.
Once the first topic’s wrapped, we move on to the second.
That one goes faster, and then we take a break to eat.
“Want to try some noodles?” He opens the container, and the smell hits me immediately—garlic, ginger, sesame oil. And it makes my mouth water.
“Sure,” I say. “You want to try mine?”
He nods, and we swap containers. Something about sharing food like this feels natural. Intimate even, like this is normal for us.
I pass him my Dim Sum, and he dives in. Taking a bite, he chews thoughtfully, and his eyes widen slightly. “This is really good.”
Watching him enjoy it makes my heart do crazy things in my chest. There’s something disarming about seeing him appreciate something simple. It makes him feel more real, less untouchable.
I take a bite of his noodles and hand it back, but he waves me off.
“Eat more. You don’t have to be shy.”
I laugh. “I’m not shy.”
“Good. Eat as much as you want.”
“So, was this your go-to during college? Late nights and studying?”
He grins. “Not really. I used to live off energy drinks. Real healthy stuff.”
“Oh, gross. That’s worse than takeout.” I grimace, remembering my own college days, which included endless amounts of coffee, many visits to the vending machine, or my mini fridge stocked with pre-made meals to keep me going all the way into the early hours.
I wasn’t much better, honestly. But at least I had real food sometimes.
“Exactly. But I could knock out assignments fast. What about you?”
“Mainly takeout, but sometimes I’d go out to restaurants with my mom.”
He pauses eating to look at me. “Where’s your mom now?”
“Still in New York.”
“What does she do?”
“Nursing administrator. She’s super busy, but when we do catch up, it’s over dinner. We’re pretty close.” My heart lodges in my ribs at saying it out loud. I miss her. The way she listens without judgment, the way she always knows when I need to talk versus when I just need company.
His expression softens. “So, your parents separated? And she moved?”
“Yeah. That’s part of why things are a bit strained with my dad.
I don’t know if she left because they broke up, or they broke up because she left, but.
..” I shrug, then sigh. I’ve never asked.
It felt too painful, like choosing sides, so I convinced myself it was better not to know.
“He still seems bitter. About her. About me leaving. I got a job in New York; peds for after my residency. It’s my dream job.
But now I’m scared to go back and leave him miserable again.
He’s doing better now, I think. But once my residency is done, I’ll leave again…
” I’ve said way too much. I read his face for judgment, pity, or anything that will tell me I’ve crossed a line.
But all I read is patience, like he’s enjoying listening to me. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says firmly, shifting a fraction closer. “You’ve got stuff weighing on you, but that’s not your burden to carry. He’s an adult. You don’t have to manage his feelings. What happened between your parents? That’s between them.”
Liz told me something similar, but hearing it from Brant feels different. Maybe it’s because he’s not tangled up in the history of it. Part of me believes him, but the other part, the part that’s been managing dad’s mood for years, cannot quite let go.
“Yeah.” I nod slowly. “It’s just... hard.”
“I can see why,” he says softly, looking at me. “You don’t have to pretend it isn’t.”
I don’t look away as seconds pass, and neither of us say or do anything.
Until he clears his throat and leans back. “We should finish up here.”
“Yeah. I’m full.” I reach to close my takeout lid, but it slips.
We both grab for it at the same time, and suddenly we’re close. My eyes lift, finding his, just inches away. We’re frozen like that, one hand each on the lid, not speaking. My lips tingle and my heart pounds. I wonder if he can feel this pull too.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and slowly stand. My hand brushes his as I let go.
He does the same, putting the lid down and stepping back. “Sorry, I—”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, though my pulse is still racing.
I force myself to look away, to focus on the papers in front of me, on anything but the way his hand felt against mine.
After I’ve just told him about my family, I feel too raw right now.
If I let myself fall into this moment, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull myself out.
We try to refocus on the work, but there’s a new awareness in the air. Every time he passes me a piece of paper or reaches across the desk, I’m hyper aware of the space between us. The room feels warmer now. But I urge myself to breathe and act like everything’s normal and do the task.
“Could you hand me that folder?” he asks after a while.
“This one?” I hold it out, careful not to let our fingers touch again. Why? Because if they do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pretend this is just work anymore. Every touch is hitting me deeper, and if I let myself want this, want him, I don’t know what I’ll do when it all falls apart.
“Thanks.” He clears his throat. “We should probably wrap up soon.”
The next hour moves slowly. Every minute is spent overthinking every detail of the day. When we finally pack up, I gather my things into my purse and throw any rubbish into the trash.
“I should get going.” I stand, ready to head into the bathroom to change out of my scrubs into clean clothes, then head home.
He checks his watch and straightens some papers that don’t need straightening. “Right. Of course.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, standing at his office doorway, not wanting to leave and wanting him to ask me to stay, but also afraid of the risks if he does.
He looks up from his desk, gathers his briefcase in one hand, jacket in the other, and heads toward the door. “I’ll walk out with you.”
We head to the parking lot together, where he waits for me to get safely in my car before heading to his own.
I don’t exhale until he’s out of sight. Only then, I’m finally free to take a full breath.