Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Simon
Levi’s pacing when I walk into my office.
“She’s alert, vitals are stable. Blood oxygen is ninety-eight, and breath sounds are clear. No retractions, no wheezing. No signs of burns. No soot in her nose or mouth.” His voice is clipped, efficient. He’s done most of the assessment before I even got here.
I glance at the chart he hands me. Neatly filled. Handwriting better than most med students I’ve worked with.
“She was making coffee,” Levi adds.
I blink at him. “Coffee?”
He shrugs, mouth twitching like it pissed him off, too. “Six in the evening, and the girl almost killed herself making coffee.”
I scoff. “Some people like coffee.”
Levi huffs out something like a laugh. “She said it calms her.”
I raise a brow. “So does oxygen. Which I assume you gave her?”
“Three liters, nasal cannula. Ten minutes.”
“Fine.” I snap the chart closed. “Where is she now?”
“Exam two. I told her she’s in good hands.”
I look up from the clipboard.
Levi’s not smirking, not grinning, and not joking like he does with everyone else. His voice was low. Warm. Protective.
Huh.
He’s attuned to her, that much is obvious. I haven’t seen him like this with anyone outside his team. There’s something in his face—like he wants to stay with her. Like walking away took effort.
I nod, push open the door, and step inside.
She’s sitting on the edge of the exam bed, barefoot, legs tucked under her. The borrowed hoodie swamps her frame. Her hair’s a tangled halo, and her hands are clenched in her lap.
She looks up.
Big green eyes. Lips parted slightly like she’s halfway between a question and a prayer. Her face is flushed, either from heat or the nerves she’s trying—and failing—to mask.
I feel it immediately.
That low shift in my chest. Something tugging behind my ribs.
I hate it.
“I’m Dr. Hale,” I say, voice flatter than I mean it to be. “Simon. I’ll be double-checking everything Levi started.”
She nods, eyes dropping to the hem of her hoodie.
“Wren,” she says softly. Her voice is husky—rasped at the edges. “Nice to meet you.”
Not even a flinch. Not a flicker of recognition at my abrupt tone.
“Still lightheaded?”
She lifts one shoulder. “A little. I think I’m just… tired.”
I glance at her chart again. Heart rate elevated. Temp slightly low. Respirations are shallow but steady.
“You’re allowed to be tired after a house fire,” I mutter, grabbing the pulse oximeter and slipping it onto her finger.
She watches me. Not the way people usually do—not with fear or deference. She just… observes. I don’t like being observed.
“Still dizzy?”
“Less than before.”
“Any pain in your chest?”
“No.”
I pick up my stethoscope and gesture for her to shift forward. She moves, careful, like her limbs haven’t quite caught up with the adrenaline crash.
“Deep breath in.”
She obeys.
Her back is warm through the hoodie. I focus on the sounds: clear breath. No rales. No stridor. No wheeze.
Again. And again. Steady.
“You’re okay,” I say. “No damage to the lungs. Oxygenations normal. But you inhaled enough smoke to irritate the airway. It could take a few days to feel fully normal.”
She exhales. “Thank you.”
I step back, snapping the chart closed.
“I want you back here in a week. Earlier if you get a fever, cough that worsens, or shortness of breath.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “I’m okay to leave?”
I nod. “You’re not a critical case. Just barefoot, mildly shocked, and smelling like campfire.”
That gets a small smile. “Not my best day.”
I should walk out. Let her get dressed. Move on to the next patient. But my feet don’t move.
“Do you have someone to stay with?” I ask. “Someone nearby?”
“Um… no. It’s just me and my cat.”
“Pancake,” I say automatically, recalling what Levi mumbled on the way in.
Her head tilts. “Yeah. How’d you—?”
“Levi mentioned. He’s… thorough.”
She smiles again, a little more real this time. And boy, she’s pretty.
That’s a problem.
Levi reappears at the door just as I’m about to say something I shouldn’t.
“I’ll drive you back,” he says, directing it at her.
“To get Pancake,” she says, as if confirming it’s not a fever dream.
I glance down. Still no shoes.
“I’ll see if we have spare sandals in the back,” I murmur, half to myself.
She stands slowly. “Thank you, Dr. Hale.”
I nod. Tight. No warmth in it. I can’t risk warmth.
She follows Levi out. I hear the echo of her soft footsteps down the corridor, the creak of the front door.
And I’m still standing there.
Something in my chest tightens.
I want to offer her shoes. A blanket. A hot meal. Anything to prolong the contact.
But I don’t move.
I watch her leave. And then I shut the door, cross to my office, and lock it behind me.
I’m not one to get rattled. Not anymore.
Not since the implosion with Marissa three years ago. Not since I left Seattle, burnout clinging to my skin like ash. Not since I stepped away from sixty-hour shifts, the blood-soaked chaos, the screaming.
I moved to this town because it was stable, because it made me feel stable.
But Wren?
Wren has me… off-kilter.
It’s not just that she’s pretty.
It’s the way she held herself on that exam bed like she was trying to disappear. The way she watched every move I made, like she didn’t really trust herself around me.
My hands are tight at my sides. Restless. Controlled.
I sit down hard at my desk and pull open the drawer. The flask of peppermint oil is there, where it always is.
I uncap it, press it to my nose, and inhale deeply.
Sharp.
Clean.
Anchoring.
I close my eyes and lean back, letting the sting burn through my senses. It scrubs out the residual smoke—the echo of her scent—something soft, clean, just a trace of sweetness.
I shouldn’t notice things like that.
I don’t notice things like that.
Not anymore.
Peppermint. Again. Slower this time.
I press the heel of my palm to my chest.
There’s no reason she should be lingering. No reason my brain should still be playing back the way her lashes fluttered when I said she was okay. The way her eyes tracked Levi.
Jealousy isn’t a luxury I allow myself. I don’t even know this woman.
But I felt it. Brief. Cold. Sharp-edged.
I open my eyes.
This is why I don’t do this.
Why I avoid patients outside the clinic. Why I keep everything categorized. Organized. Contained.
Because when something slips through, it wrecks me.
I stare at the closed office door. Listen for footsteps.
There are none.
Levi’s out there, probably making sure she got into his truck okay and probably asking if she’s eaten. Probably knowing precisely what to say, the way he always does.
And I’m in here, hiding like a fucking coward.
I glance down at my hands.
They’re still steady.
But I’m not.