8. Athena
ATHENA
The pediatric floor at Hawthorne always feels different in the morning.
Lights are dimmer, carts roll out of storage, and the nurses’ station fills with the quiet shuffle of charts, tablets, and half-finished coffee cups. Someone down the hall is already arguing with the supply cabinet while a little boy in dinosaur pajamas tries to race an IV pole past his mother.
Theo sits upright in bed, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape while he lines up plastic dinosaurs across the tray table. His mother looks exhausted but relieved, the kind of tired that only comes after a long night where the numbers finally started behaving.
“Morning,” I say, setting the chart on the counter. “How’s my favorite paleontologist?”
Theo lifts a bright green T-rex and holds it out to me. “He’s the boss.”
“Good,” I reply, pressing the stethoscope to Theo’s chest while he watches me with intense concentration. “Someone around here needs to be.”
His breathing sounds clear, strong. I pull the earpieces out and scribble a quick note on the tablet.
“Looks like you’re going home today,” I tell him.
Theo’s mother lets out a soft breath and presses her hand over her mouth. Theo pumps the dinosaur into the air like he just scored a winning goal.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“Don’t thank me,” I reply, peeling off the gloves and dropping them in the bin. “Thank the antibiotics and the fact that Theo here is apparently indestructible.”
Theo beams.
When I step back into the hallway, the station is already humming.
Maya stands behind the counter flipping through medication sheets while one of the interns tries to balance a stack of patient folders against his hip.
“You’re smiling,” Maya says immediately.
“I always smile.”
She raises an eyebrow without looking up. “You’re glowing.”
I cock my head at her. “That’s a stretch.”
Maya slides the chart into a file tray and leans forward on the counter. “Late dinner last night?”
I pick up my coffee and take a slow sip while pretending to review the patient board. “Something like that.”
“Uh huh.” Her grin widens and she taps the desk twice before turning toward the medication room.
“Just remember,” she calls over her shoulder, “gossip spreads faster than infections in this place.”
“Good thing I’m vaccinated,” I reply, although I’m kind of grinning myself.
The morning moves quickly after that.
Two discharge orders. One nervous father who needs reassurance three separate times that his daughter’s fever is normal. A toddler who refuses to keep his pulse monitor on unless it gets a sticker.
By ten o’clock the floor feels handled. I duck into the side hallway near the supply room and finally check my phone.
One message waits.
Nate: Can we talk?
I stare at the screen as the hospital corridor carries on behind me. A cart rattles past. Someone calls for a resident down the hall. The phone vibrates again.
Nate: Just ten minutes.
My thumb moves before I think too hard about it.
Athena: About what?
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Nate: I’d rather say in person.
I rest my shoulder against the wall and look down toward the hospital entrance through the narrow hallway window. Cars pull in and out of the drop-off lane while families move through the doors with overnight bags and coffee cups.
The phone buzzes again.
Nate: Lunch?
Athena: I’m working.
A moment later another message appears.
Nate: After your shift then.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard before I finally answer. I’m not looking forward to seeing him today or ever again, but I’m partly concerned he knows something he shouldn’t. If he wants to say anything, I’d rather he do it in front of my face.
Athena: Where?
The reply arrives immediately.
Nate: Same café we used to go to after work.
I stare at the message for a second. Maya pushes the hallway door open and spots me leaning there. “Alvarez is looking for you in 206,” she says. “And if you’re hiding from rounds I fully support it, but he does not.”
Nodding quickly, I slip the phone back into my pocket. “Coming.”
I follow Maya down the hall and push through the door to Room 206.
Dr. Alvarez stands at the foot of the bed while a teenage girl scrolls on her phone like the entire hospital exists only to interrupt her morning.
Her father hovers near the window, arms folded, the expression on his face halfway between worry and impatience.
Alvarez glances up when I step in. “Athena, good,” he says. “Can you walk them through the medication schedule again? I want to be sure we’re clear before discharge.”
“Of course.”
I move beside the bed and pull the chart up on the tablet while the girl sighs pointedly. “You’re going home,” I tell her. “That usually improves moods.”
She rolls her eyes but sits up while I explain the antibiotics, the follow-up visit, and what to watch for over the next few days. Her father asks three questions. I answer all of them. Alvarez nods once when we’re done and heads for the door.
By the time they leave, the floor has settled into its midday rhythm. Charts get signed. Lunch trays appear. A toddler refuses to take a nap and negotiates with a nurse about cookie privileges.
I’m updating notes at the station when I realize I need one more signature from Trauma. I grab the tablet and head toward the elevators.
The trauma floor opens with the intensity that sits just under the surface when people spend their days pulling strangers back from the edge. I step out into the corridor and almost run straight into Nathan.
He’s halfway through reading something on a tablet while walking, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened just enough to suggest he’s been here longer than he planned.
He looks up. For half a second the surgeon disappears and the man from last night steps into his place, and I blush immediately.
“Well,” he says in that gorgeous baritone of his, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “If it isn’t my favorite pediatric troublemaker.”
I fold my arms loosely. “That sounds suspiciously biased, Dr. Clarke.”
“I’m allowed a few biases.”
His eyes travel over me once, not lingering long enough to make it inappropriate, but long enough that I feel the echo of last night settle somewhere deep in my stomach. “Busy morning?” he asks.
“Normal chaos,” I say. “Two discharges, one stubborn toddler, and a father who thinks WebMD qualifies him as a consultant.”
Nathan chuckles under his breath. “That sounds familiar.”
I lift the tablet between us. “Actually, you’re exactly who I needed,” I say. “Alvarez wants Trauma to sign off on Theo Ramirez before discharge.”
Nathan takes the tablet from my hand and scans the chart quickly. His brow furrows for a second while he reads through the notes. “Pneumonia case from yesterday?”
“That’s the one.”
He nods once, taps the screen, and signs with a quick practiced motion before handing it back.
“Clear lungs, stable vitals,” he says. “He’s good to go.”
I take the tablet, trying not to notice how close he’s standing. “Thanks, sir.”
“Anytime.”
For a moment we just stand there in the hallway, both of us pretending this is a routine hospital conversation while the space between us remembers exactly how his hands felt on my throat.
He shifts the tablet under one arm and lowers his voice. “Are you free tonight?”
My brows lift slightly. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether this is a professional dinner or a suspiciously charming invitation.”
Nathan’s smile deepens, and I spot two dimples that give him an unfair advantage at once. “It’s dinner,” he says. “Actual food. A table. No hospital lighting.”
I peer into his eyes. “And the agenda?”
He studies me for a heartbeat, his expression doing that thing where it manages to be both a question and the answer at the same time. I swear, the man can laugh with his irises—a feat of physics I’d love to study if I weren’t currently forgetting how to breathe. “Spending time with you.”
The honesty in that answer catches me slightly off guard.
I glance down the hall once, then back at him. “Alright,” I say. “Dinner sounds nice.”
“Good.” His expression relaxes just a little. “I’ll pick you up.”
“Seven?”
“Seven works.”
A nurse rounds the corner behind him pushing a medication cart, and Nathan steps aside automatically to clear the hallway.
“I should get back to work,” I say.
“So should I.”
But neither of us moves immediately. Our eyes remain fixed on each other, his gray on my hazel. A breath or two later, he gestures lightly toward the elevators. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to forget what I came to do. Go on, shoo, save the children.”
I smile despite myself and head back toward the doors with a spring in my step.
What I don’t say is that I’m meeting Nate for lunch.
Partly it’s timing. Dropping that information in the middle of a hospital hallway feels like lighting a match beside an oxygen tank.
Nathan would keep his voice calm, but the temperature in the room would change fast.
Partly it’s pride. I can handle one conversation with my ex without running it past the man I slept with last night. And partly it’s simple curiosity. I’d like to hear what Nate thinks he has left to say.
The rest of the morning moves fast after that.
Lunch trays roll out, monitors beep steadily, and the hallway fills with the usual mix of parents asking careful questions and nurses juggling three things at once.
I finish a chart, walk a nervous mother through a dosage schedule, and help a little girl decorate her cast with glitter pens that will probably haunt housekeeping later.
By the time I check the clock again, it’s almost one.
I sign the last chart at the nurses’ station, grab my bag from the locker room, and step outside into the midday rush. The café is two blocks away.
It looks exactly the same as it did the last time I was here with Nate. Same chalkboard menu, same tiny tables pressed too close together, same smell of coffee and toasted bread drifting out the open door.
I take a table near the window and check my phone. 12:57 p.m.
He said one.
At 1:05 p.m. he still hasn’t arrived.
At 1:07 p.m., the door opens and Nate walks in like someone dragged him here by the collar.
He looks tired and irritated, his shoulders slouched under a wrinkled button-down. His eyes sweep the room until they land on me, and something dark flickers across his face before he crosses the café.
He drops into the chair across from me without greeting. “Well,” he says, leaning back like this entire meeting is an inconvenience. “You look comfortable.”
I fold my hands on the table. “You’re late.”
“Five minutes,” he mutters. “Relax.”
A server passes by and sets a glass of water in front of him. Nate doesn’t even look up. His attention stays fixed on me. “So,” he says slowly. “Have you learned your lesson yet?”
I frown at him. “My what?”
“Your lesson,” he repeats, waving a hand between us. “Storming off. Acting like you’re too good to deal with problems.”
My mouth curls. “You cheated on me, and I’m supposed to be learning lessons?”
“Jesus,” he snaps. “You’re still stuck on that?”
I sigh and lean back in my chair. “That was three weeks ago. It’s not exactly a history lesson yet, is it?” Crossing my arms, I look away from him and at the door. “You asked to meet me. If this is your apology tour, it’s not off to a great start.”
His lips press into a thin, bloodless line. I can’t for the life of me remember why I ever thought it was a good idea to waste so much of myself on this guy. “I didn’t come here to apologize.”
“That’s clear.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “You look different.”
“Different how?”
“Relaxed,” he says, the word sounding almost accusing. “Like you’ve moved on already.”
I shrug, although a ripple of unease runs up my spine. “People tend to do that.”
“From a four-year relationship?”
“From being cheated on,” I correct. “Yes.”
His mouth twists. “You think you’re going to do better than me?”
I laugh once, refusing to show him how nervous I am. “That’s a low bar, Nate.”
His fingers drum once on the table. “You’re not exactly a prize, Athena.”
The sting doesn’t hurt as much as it would have a month ago. “Good thing I’m not trying to win you.”
His gaze sharpens then, searching my face. “You’re seeing someone.”
It isn’t a question. I keep my expression neutral, but I’m almost certain my eyes give it away. “That’s none of your business.”
“Right,” he says slowly. “So there is someone.”
I don’t answer. Nate leans forward, elbows on the table, his voice dropping. “You know I’ll find out who it is.”
My feet begin tapping lightly against the floor, but I do my best to keep my voice level. “Why would you care?”
“Because,” he says, smiling in a way that feels more like a warning than humor, “if some guy thinks he can step into my place, I’d like to meet him.”
I hold his stare. “You don’t have a place anymore.”
“Maybe not,” he replies lightly. “But I can make life uncomfortable for people pretty quickly.”
Something cold moves through my chest.
“If I wanted to.”
My chair scrapes against the floor as I stand. “This conversation is over.”
“Oh come on.” He looks up at me. “You’re that sensitive?”
“No,” I reply, grabbing my bag. “I’m just done.”
A dull pressure spreads behind my eyes. If he figures out it’s Nathan, hell will break loose.
I can see all the accusations swimming in front of me.
Conflict of interest. Abuse of authority.
Favoritism. Words people in suits love to repeat while they decide how to make an example out of someone. We’d lose our jobs.
Nate leans back again as if this entire thing amuses him. “Tell your mystery boyfriend I said hello.”
I walk out of the café before he can say anything else. The street outside is loud with traffic and midday crowds. I take a few steps toward the corner then stop suddenly when a sharp wave rolls through my stomach. My hand presses against the brick wall beside the café as bend over and groan.