4. Catch & Release #2
After lunch, Mr. Reyes brings in his teenage granddaughter, Sofia, who has been having headaches and stomach pain. He does most of the talking. Sofia answers every question with one syllable and a glare fixed on the floor.
I know that look.
I know that grandfather too. Good man. Loud when he’s nervous. Terrible at leaving space.
Doc asks the basics, then glances at me.
“Mr. Reyes,” Doc says, “I’m going to have Annie help Sofia with a couple of questions while you and I step across the hall and talk through family history.”
Sofia looks up for the first time.
Mr. Reyes frowns. “I can answer.”
“I know. I need both perspectives.”
It’s smooth. Clean. No accusation. No drama.
When the men step out, Sofia exhales and looks at me.
“Periods?” I ask.
Her face goes red. “Bad ones.”
We get there slowly. Pain, nausea, missing school, fear that her grandfather will make it everyone’s business at church if he finds out. I get enough information to help without making her feel exposed.
When Doc comes back, he listens to my summary, keeps his tone respectful, and looks at Sofia when he explains options. He doesn’t talk around her. By the time they leave, Sofia has a plan, Mr. Reyes has clear instructions, and Doc has earned a tiny piece of my professional respect.
Tiny.
Microscopic.
Still annoying.
The afternoon slows after that. Rain taps lightly at the front windows, soft enough to ignore but persistent enough to make the street outside look gray and dreary.
Doc disappears into Art’s office.
I know he has to.
It’s his office now.
I know all the reasonable, adult things I’m supposed to tell myself about ownership, transition, continuity of care, and the fact that dead men don’t need desks.
I know. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
I carry a stack of clean drapes down the hall and glance toward the open office door.
Doc is sitting at Art’s desk.
Doc’s desk.
For one second, I can’t move.
The picture is wrong.
The shoulders are too broad. The lab coat is too bright. There’s a dark head bent over a file where Art’s gray hair should be. A pen in his hand where Art used to tap his fingers while thinking.
Doc looks up.
“Annie?”
A sound leaves me before I can swallow it.
I step back and hit the supply cart with my hip. Metal rattles. A tray shifts. Something tips. I reach out fast, trying to catch the edge of the cart, but my foot slips along the floor.
The floor slips out from under me.
Then, a hand clamps around my arm. Another lands at my waist.
Doc pulls me into him before I hit the floor.
I collide with his chest instead.
All the air leaves my lungs.
His body is hard under the coat. Warm. Solid in a way I am furious to notice. His hand spreads across my back, holding me there with care, and my fingers are fisted in the front of his shirt before I realize I grabbed him.
“Easy,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
I stare up at him.
Gray eyes. Close enough that I can see the darker rim around them. Concern drawn across his face. Real concern.
That makes me soften.
“Are you hurt?”
My body answers before my mouth can. Heat moves through me, fast and humiliating, chasing the shock of his hands, the taut muscles of his chest pressed into me, the strength in the arms keeping me upright.
I hate every inch of it. And I want it too.
“Just my pride.” I push back too hard.
He lets me go at once.
The loss of his hands should be a relief. Instead, it feels like loss.
The cart is crooked. Drapes are scattered across the floor. My pride is somewhere under them, dead on arrival.
Doc bends to pick up the fallen stack.
“Don’t,” I say, quietly.
He pauses.
“I’ve got it.”
His eyes lift to mine. “Annie.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think about how my being in Art’s office might upset you.
The apology lands with surgical precision.
Clear. Direct. Awful.
“It didn’t.”
He looks at the cart. The floor. My hands, which are not behaving as calmly as I need them to.
“Okay.”
I crouch, gather the drapes, and shove them back on the cart. “You’re allowed to sit in your office, Dr. Bie. You bought it.”
His expression darkens.
I went for the wound and hit it.
“Please, call me Doc.”
“No guarantees.” I push the cart past him, praying he lets me escape.
The rest of the day becomes a test of endurance.
I answer calls. I file notes. I schedule follow-ups. I bring Doc Art’s referral forms and pretend I have stopped remembering his arms around me.
Every time he passes behind me, I know it. Every time his voice comes from the hallway, my body remembers being pulled against him before my mind can lecture it into silence.
By five fifteen, I have survived the day, which is a lower bar than I usually set for myself.
Doc stands near the front desk, coat off now, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms again, the traitorous absolutely nobody asked for
“You did good work today,” he says.
I close the appointment book. “I know.”
His mouth does the almost-smile thing. “I’m learning that about you.”
“That I’m good at my job?”
“That you know it.”
I pick up my bag. “Careful, Doctor. That almost sounded like admiration.”
“It was.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I choose the safest available weapon.
“Try not to break anything when I leave.”
“I’ll do my best.” He laughs.
The sound follows me out.
By the time I get home, my body is exhausted and my brain has declared war on itself.
I drop my bag by the door and walk straight to the bedroom. I strip out of my scrubs and can’t turn off my brain.