Chapter 24 #2
“I have already called in another doctor to cover you. Stay with the patient,” he says.
“Are you coming in too?”
“No, but I need to talk to Dr. Sullivan before they go in.” He’s already pulling up scans on the tablet. “He will. It’ll be tight, but they’ll let you in.”
I nod slowly. “All right.”
I help hand off notes to the called in emergency doctor and step back when I hear Dr. Sullivan’s voice cut through the air. “Dr. Thomas. Let’s go.”
I glance back at the ward once more, then jog to catch up.
Inside the theater, the tension settles around me. I expect to be standing by the back, but as I pause by the wall, Dr. Sullivan speaks. “Harrison asked you to be next to the monitors. So you can see everything.”
I move into place and try to stop my hands from shaking, knowing I’m going to want to remember all of this.
It doesn’t click until I hear them confirming the diagnosis out loud, atrioventricular canal defect, severe and complete. The plan is clear: close the septal defect, separate the mitral and tricuspid valves, and reconstruct as needed.
They begin to prep the patient, and a nurse points me where to stand so that I get a better view.
The boy is about six months old. Pale, fragile, and so small under all the wires and monitors.
And then it hits me. The same condition Brant had as a child.
No wonder he was shaking.
I stay seated the entire time. The hours crawl by…
four, then five. Nurses swap out. The anaesthesiologist checks the monitors again and again.
Dr. Sullivan and his assistant don't falter. They’re in the zone.
The focus he has on the patient and the skilled ease in his movements make me confident the child is in safe hands.
By the end, the child is finally transferred to recovery.
I thank Dr. Sullivan as he starts peeling off his gloves.
I did feel like I’ve been holding my breath the entire time.
Before heading back to find Brant, I pass by recovery, checking on the little boy, who is stable, breathing better.
His tiny chest rising and falling under the oxygen hood.
He looks... okay. This fragile child is why I want to work in pediatrics.
Watching the mother’s face look less panicked and more tired is a relief.
I make my way to the office. The second I step inside, I can’t sit, so I pace, waiting for him.
He won’t be far away; he’s probably just with another case.
Something about this case got to him badly, and I know it’s the same heart condition he had as a child, but surely, he’s seen it in his time here?
He walks into the office, breaking up my wandering thoughts. He’s somehow still flawless, like nothing happened, except the knot at his throat is tighter than ever.
I stop pacing and freeze mid-step, watching him lower his head.
Something in me reacts before I even think. I step forward, gently reaching out. My fingers graze his bicep through the sleeve of his suit, and I feel the muscle twitch beneath my touch.
He doesn’t speak.
He just stares at my hand on his arm, like it’s confusing him or steadying him. I don’t know.
Then, quietly, he says, “He was the same age I was. When I had the surgery.”
My breath hitches.
“I’ve never had to deal with a case that close to home before,” he says. “A little boy. Same age. Same symptoms. Same scar waiting for him.”
He doesn’t need to say the rest. It was triggering.
He just… couldn’t say it out loud. It all makes sense now.
It’s not about the surgery he had as a child.
It’s about living with it. About seeing that little boy wake up and knowing exactly what kind of future he’s facing.
The check-ups, the anxiety, knowing your body has failed once and could do it again.
I lift my other hand and place it on his opposite arm, steadying both of us.
He drags his head up and meets my gaze. His eyes are wide and lost, and the power I usually see in him is gone.
He looks like a scared kid, and my chest tightens painfully. I want to protect him and shake him and hold him all at once.
My breathing shortens into shallow, uneven pants.
God, this version of him breaks me. And I want the other version back. I want the sharp-tongued, bossy, impossible-to-read doctor. Because seeing him like this makes my heart ache.
I shouldn’t ask the question. I know I shouldn’t. But I do it anyway.
“Why did you want me in there?”
He hesitates. Then mutters, almost like it’s hard for him to admit.
“As annoying as you can be”—his mouth quirks, barely— “I wanted you to understand me better.”
He finally lifts a hand and runs it through his hair, frustrated.
“I knew you’d help me get through the case,” he says. “Just by being there, even if I couldn’t.”
He steps around me, and my hands fall away as he moves, dragging a hand over his face. He looks… tired.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
I just stand there, watching as he walks to the window and stares out. The view’s still there, even at night. It should feel peaceful, but the air between us is anything but.
“Do you need a moment?” I ask gently. “Want me to make coffee? Should I head back to the ward? What do you need from me?”
He turns suddenly, crossing the room in a few long strides. And then his hands are in my hair, threading through, cupping the back of my head, tilting my face up.
His glassy eyes search mine. “I need you,” he whispers.
And just like that, I forget how to breathe altogether as his breath fans across my lips, warm and shaky.
“I’m here,” I say on an exhale.
“I’ll lose my chief position if he finds out…”
But I don’t get to say a word. His lips crash into mine, and everything else falls away.
The world goes quiet.
There’s only the press of his mouth, which is firm and desperate.
His fingers tighten in my hair, angling me just right so he can deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding past my lips.
An overwhelming amount of heat floods my body.
The taste of him, the way he takes control so completely, the way my body responds like it’s been waiting for this.
A soft moan escapes me before I can even think.
He kisses me like he’s been waiting years. Our hands are everywhere, urgent and hungry. I reach for the knot of his tie, fingers brushing the tight fabric, and everything stills.
His mouth pauses.
“We can’t,” he whispers against my lips. “Too far. Not here. Not now.” He rests his forehead against mine.
I breathe hard. “Yeah, we have to work.”
“As much as I want to…” He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “We need to talk too.”
Talk… I know he’s right. Because it isn’t just about wanting him. It’s about everything that comes after.
“Go make us coffee before I get myself into more trouble,” he says.
“Yes, boss.” I wink over my shoulder as I step out of his office. And I swear, just before the door shuts behind me, I hear him mutter under his breath.
“I’m so fucked.”