Chapter Twenty-Five Julian
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JULIAN
The morning sunlight illuminates all the reds and golds hidden within Nomi’s dark, shiny hair on my pillow. I feel like an explorer must, discovering new land, as I twirl a long, shimmering strand around my finger.
I would like to explore her further.
Nomi stretches her arms over her head sleepily, which pulls up the T-shirt she borrowed, revealing her pale thighs.
I am butter melting against a hot potato.
I groan as my body absorbs the way the curved mound of her pussy peeks beneath my shirt and tucks this information straight into my hardening dick.
She opens one eye, sees me staring, and laughs.
“What,” I purr as I pull her by her exposed hip toward me.
“You look like the horniest man alive.”
“I am the horniest man alive.” I roll onto my back, bringing her on top of me, her legs parting around my thick, swelling cock.
She mmms softly as I run my hands up her thighs, under her shirt, trailing along her ribs, pausing there.
They seem more pronounced than a few weeks ago.
I frown, start to say something, but Nomi brings my hands to her breasts, and what was I going to say?
My thumbs find her tight, excited nipples, and drag roughly down until the buds spring up, free. “God, you’re perfect.”
Nomi flinches, and I freeze, hands still cupping the heft of her small, perfect breasts. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Her soft laugh feels like butterflies beneath my hands, and my racing pulse slows even as her smile fades. “It’s just—I’m not perfect, Julian. Not by a long shot.” Her face is uncharacteristically pensive as she sweeps off the T-shirt and tosses it on the floor.
“Ah, but your evidence supports the opposite conclusion, Wyeth.” Jealousy floods my bloodstream at how the morning licks her body with light everywhere my mouth wants to be. My fingers wrap around her hips and guide her gently forward so I can have her for breakfast. “Allow me to rebut.”
After a morning spent testing my expensive mattress’s non-bounce claims, we stop by Philly Gen to check on Mr. Gutierrez.
One night with antibiotics and IV administration of his regular medications, and he’s much improved.
He’ll need to be in the hospital for the next few days until the choking risks have passed, but the difference in his rigidity is already stark compared to last night.
Though it physically pains me, I have to say goodbye to Nomi in the parking deck afterward.
She needs to drive her car back and visit some clients today, and I’m scheduled for the afternoon shift at the clinic.
“See you tonight?” I murmur into her hair, kissing the soft lobe of her ear while giving zero fucks that various hospital staff see me doing so.
“Six p.m.,” Nomi agrees, then sighs into my arms. “Our last planning meeting before the hearing.”
“It’s going to go great,” I assure her. “Vinny and Veronica know what they’re doing.”
Nomi’s mouth twists. “I wish we could prove that Tonuto’s vendetta against Sammy is at play here.”
“Me, too. But we don’t need it to win tomorrow. We can prove the dispensary is a valid use within the Main Street business zone.”
Her brown eyes, like amber pots of dark, meadow honey, lock on to mine.
“I hope you’re right.” She leans her chin up, meeting my mouth in a kiss so soft and sweet, it almost breaks my heart.
I would go to war for this woman. Fight the whole town, all of New Jersey, if it meant I could give Nomi what she wants.
The hours at the clinic pass in a pleasant, steady thrum of appointments.
At the end of the day, I’m responding to messages in our patient portal when an urgent test results notification pops up.
I click on it immediately, my pulse picking up as the number of abnormal values screams down the PDF.
Both the C-reactive protein and ESR levels are way too high, indicating significant inflammation, and the patient’s potassium and B-12 levels are very low.
I frown at the results, considering the implications.
Malabsorption of nutrients most often indicates gastrointestinal conditions, though it could be other serious concerns, too, like liver disease, even cystic fibrosis.
My eyes flit to the top of the report, and my stomach turns to ice.
Patient: Nomi Wyeth.
Nomi’s sick, actually sick. Oh, fuck, is that why she’s been losing weight?
My mind vomits up every bit of information I’ve ever inadvertently learned about Nomi’s health—she has a “condition,” she’s badly overdue for some kind of screening.
During her physical when I touched her abdomen, she winced in pain and oh!
That day early in the summer when I tried to apologize to her, I briefly glimpsed that MRI report diagnosing her with a moderate stool burden.
You don’t forget those words written back-to-back about the woman of your dreams. I quickly search that phrase on the internet, but it can be indicative of many things, mostly GI-related.
My finger itches over the button for her patient records, and a wave of sick dread crashes through me.
I can’t look. I promised I wouldn’t look.
But she’s sick, and she isn’t doing anything about it.
My chest has become a tight metal locker that my heart is now slamming up against, over and over.
I close my eyes, try to breathe. There is no emergency, everyone you love is okay.
There is no emergency, everyone you love is okay.
But I don’t—I can’t believe it this time.
A voice clears behind me, and I swirl around in my chair, irrationally terrified it’s Nomi. My excuse is already in my mouth, I didn’t mean to look! But it’s Dr. Srinivasan standing there, his brown eyes kind. “Julian. How are you today?”
“Oh, pretty good, Dr. Appa,” I wheeze out, hand pressed hard to my sternum. “You?”
His face lights up into a smile. “You called me Dr. Appa!”
I blink rapidly. “It’s ah… growing on me.”
“Do you have a moment, Julian? I have something I want to discuss with you.”
“Sure.” I quickly minimize Nomi’s lab report and turn back to face him fully. I exhale a deep breath, trying to bring my careening anxiety back to the present moment. “More complaints?”
Dr. Appa laughs. “You know, I haven’t received a legitimate complaint about you in ages.”
“What were the illegitimate ones?”
Dr. Appa waves his hand dismissively as he takes the patient chair by the door. “Oh, Ms. Beckler thinks you should wear tighter pants.”
My eyes widen in horror. Ms. Beckler’s ninety-two.
“I was very impressed with how you handled Mr. Gutierrez’s emergency, Julian.
” Dr. Appa looks at me sidelong. “Many doctors would’ve increased his medications without pausing to consider why the current dosage was no longer effective.
A delay in treating that underlying bacterial infection could’ve cost Mr. Gutierrez critical mobility for years to come, or even his life.
But you listened. You observed. And you’d already done enough research into your patient’s condition to know what to look for.
Because of that, you got him the help he needed and likely saved his life. ”
“Oh.” I run my hand through my hair, surprised. “Well, I’m an ER doctor. It’s all part of it, I guess.”
Dr. Appa tilts his head. “But that’s just it—it’s not.
What you did for Mr. Gutierrez was pure family medicine and really, beyond.
Because of your ongoing relationship with Mr. Gutierrez, you were able to draw observations that eliminated many of the likely culprits and instead zeroed in on a rare, high-stakes complication of his disease.
That’s what makes a general practitioner truly excellent—the willingness to know their patients.
To stay curious and informed about their conditions.
To refuse to settle when the easiest explanations don’t add up.
You showed true partnership with Mr. Gutierrez that day, which is what being someone’s primary care physician is all about.
I’m impressed with you and how much you’ve grown these last few months, and I’m very grateful. ”
My chest aches with sudden emotion, my throat tightening. “Thank you, sir.”
“When Gisella asked if I’d take you on for your probation, I didn’t want to say yes.
But she’s your biggest advocate, and I respect her judgment wholeheartedly.
And Gisella was right, as usual! Now, three months later, I’m retiring and would like to give you my practice.
” Dr. Appa chuckles to himself. “Funny how life works.”
I choke on my own spit. “What?”
“I’m retiring at the end of December, and I’d like you to take over my practice. Oh, don’t look so shocked! I’m sixty-eight years old. I’ve wanted to retire for ages, but I couldn’t do it without knowing my patients would be well cared for. And I believe you’re exactly the doctor to do it, Julian.”
“Me?” My breath is coming out in short little spurts. “Your practice?”
“Yes,” Dr. Appa says gamely. “On both accounts.”
Staying in Sparrow Nook, long term? The idea feels like pans clanging together in my brain.
I was supposed to rise up through the ranks at Philly Gen, eventually replacing Dr. Riveras one day, or perhaps moving to an even bigger city to work at an even bigger research hospital.
I’m not a primary care physician—I’m an ER doctor, and a damn good one.
Despite all the stress and pressure inherent in working at Philly Gen, those halls still feel like home, offering me a life that still makes sense.
After seeing Dr. Riveras this week, I’m almost certain they’ll take me back.