Chapter 10
POV: Marina
I stared at the report on my laptop for a long time.
He hadn’t just done it right—he’d done it beautifully. The differential was tight, the reasoning elegant, the tone compassionate without being sentimental. It was… Brennan. Brilliant, infuriatingly competent Brennan.
And he’d done it for me.
Marina: I read the report. It’s perfect.
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Brennan: Perfect is a strong word.
Marina: It’s accurate. Clean. And you handled the neurodegenerative angle better than I would have today.
A pause. Then:
Brennan: Today wasn’t about proving anything. It was about getting you through the consult.
My throat tightened. I swallowed and stared at the ceiling.
Marina: Still. Thank you. You’re… very good at this.
Brennan: I know.
I laughed softly. Of course he would say that.
Brennan: Also—random thing. I got residency offers in my inbox again. Ortho, neuro, even some research-heavy programs.
Saw one program nearby. Strong ortho exposure. Thought of you.
I stared at the message. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but nothing came out.
Brennan: You’d crush there.
I closed my eyes.
Brennan: You still there, Cardio God?
I exhaled through my nose, half a laugh.
Marina: You call me Cardio God and then send me ortho programs?
Brennan: You’re already a Cardio God. I don’t see why you can’t be an Ortho God too.
I stared at the screen, heart doing something stupid and loud in my chest.
I didn’t answer.
Right after my phone buzzed again, and my heart jumped of the thought of being him again.
It was not.
Angela: Marina, are you alive or too busy dealing with your hot resident to talk to us?
Clara: She disappeared. Suspicious behavior.
I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips.
Marina: I’m alive. Busy. And he’s not my resident.
Angela: Yet.
Clara: How are you, seriously? You vanished after rounds.
I hesitated, then typed.
Marina: I had a patient with Jonathan’s disease today.
Three dots popped up immediately.
Angela: Oh, shit. Marina, I’m so sorry.
Clara: How did you handle that?
My fingers hovered, then I typed the truth.
Marina: Brennan handled it.
There was a beat. Then chaos.
Angela: Brennan???
Clara: Off-limits resident, best-sex-of-your-life Brennan?
Angela: The one stupidly hot??
I groaned.
Marina: Shut up.
Angela: So he’s hot and emotionally competent? Rude.
Clara: Universe is unfair.
I dropped my phone on the bed, cheeks warm.
By the end of the week, exhaustion sat in my bones like a second skeleton.
Rounds were brutal. Paperwork endless. And somehow, Brennan had been… flawless.
The patient with Jonathan’s disease hadn’t broken him. He’d handled the case with precision, empathy, and an infuriating kind of brilliance that made me want to both praise him and throw him out a window.
He stopped by my office late afternoon, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place.
“I sent you the final report,” he said, holding out a printed copy anyway. “But I wanted to walk you through my thought process. In case you wanted to destroy me in person instead of over email.”
I took the paper. “You’re annoyingly competent.”
A faint smirk curved his mouth. “I try.”
He turned to leave—right as Angela’s heels clicked down the hallway.
“Marina! Girls’ night at Hannigan’s. We pick you up at seven.”
“I’m not—”
“Not an option,” she cut in, blowing me a kiss. “Wear that red dress. The sinful one. I know you know which one. Be hot. Bye.”
She disappeared.
Brennan cleared his throat as he passed me.
“If I’d known peer pressure worked this well, I would’ve forced you on a date since day one.”
He shot me a lazy grin and walked away.
I stared at the door for a full ten seconds, heat creeping up my neck.
Idiot.
Annoying, brilliant, unfairly attractive idiot.
At seven, I gave up pretending I wasn’t going.
The red dress was… a mistake.
Soft fabric, hugging curves I usually tried to forget existed. I looked like someone who made poor decisions on purpose.
Angela and Clara kidnapped me, delivered me to Hannigan’s, and within five minutes I had a drink in my hand.
I was just starting to relax when Angela cleared her throat dramatically.
“Your hot resident are here. Again.”
I didn’t even need to turn. I felt him.
Brennan stood at the bar, leaning against the counter like it was tailored for him, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He lifted one in a mock toast, eyes locked on mine over the rim of the glass.
Smiling. Slowly. Deliberately.
I shook my head and muttered, “Not now.”
But my chest betrayed me, warmth pooling low and slow, as if some part of me had been waiting for him to appear.
Of course he did.
Of course he would.
And the worst part?
I didn’t hate that he was there.
Not even a little.
I told myself I wouldn’t keep looking.
That I would focus on Angela’s story about a nurse who tried to diagnose a hangover with WebMD, that I would sip my drink like a normal person, that I would not track every movement of Brennan Stokes like he was my personal gravitational field.
I failed on all counts.
He stayed at the bar, one elbow resting on the counter, shoulders relaxed, posture infuriatingly confident. Every time I glanced up, his gaze was already on me.
Waiting.
Watching.
Smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing to my nervous system.
“You’re staring,” Angela sang, nudging my knee under the table.
“I’m not.”
“You are,” Clara added, grinning. “And you’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re not but your pupils are basically heart-shaped.”
I rolled my eyes. “I am having a good time with my friends.”
“Sure,” Angela said sweetly. “Go talk to him.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
“I’m not—”
Clara laughed. “Fine. Stay here. We’re definitely not enabling this.”
They both snickered, and I pretended not to hear them while ordering another drink.
The alcohol warmed my veins, softened my edges. The hospital version of me—the composed attending, the woman with boundaries and logic—started to blur.
Then I saw her.
She was tall, blonde, effortlessly pretty. She walked up to the bar like she belonged anywhere she decided to stand.
She leaned in. Brennan turned. Smiled.
He laughed.
Something hot and sharp twisted in my chest.
I didn’t even think.
“I’m just going to say hi,” I announced, already standing.
Angela’s eyes lit up. “Of course you are.”
Clara waved dramatically. “Godspeed, soldier.”
They laughed as I walked away.
I slid onto the stool beside him, close enough that his arm brushed mine.
He didn’t turn immediately.
He didn’t need to.
I felt him notice me—the subtle shift, the small smile forming before he even looked.
“Good to see you again,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I was wondering if you’d keep pretending I wasn’t here.”
I scoffed. “Please. I was busy.”
“Of course.” He glanced at the empty space beside him. “She just left. Timing impeccable.”
“Who was that?” I asked, aiming for casual. Missing spectacularly.
He chuckled. “You’re adorable when you’re pretending not to be territorial.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“You implied—”
“I asked if you were jealous.”
I glared at him. “Of course not.”
His eyes darkened in that way that always made my pulse misbehave.
“I′m not jealous, I even told you to date someone.” I said trying not to convince myself more than him.
“You did. And I told you I have one specific person in mind.”
He held my gaze, slow and deliberate, like he wanted me to say it out loud.
I didn’t.
Instead, I lifted my glass and took a long sip. “You just came here because you knew I was here.”
He raised a brow. “Presumptuous.” He said smirking.“This city has, what, three bars? Odds were high.”
“Of course,” I said, trying not to sound so sarcastic.
“Or,” he murmured, leaning closer, “I wanted to see you.”
I refused to answer.
“So,” I said, deflecting, “who was she?”
“A friend from med school. Starting residency in gynecology. She recognized me, said hi.”
“Hm.”
“You’re pouting.”
“I’m observing.”
He laughed softly, and the sound went straight through me. “You’re terrible at lying when you’ve had three drinks.”
I tilted my head. “You are coughing my drinks?”
His gaze dropped to my lips for half a second.
My stomach flipped.
Angela and Clara appeared behind me, coats on, eyes sparkling with chaos.
“We’re leaving,” Angela announced loudly. “You look busy.”
“I’m not—”
Clara waved. “Text us when you get home, Marina. Or don’t. Live your best impulsive life.”
They disappeared out the door, both turning to wave like proud enablers of disaster.
I stared after them. “Traitors. I will need to call a cab now,”
But before I could even think, Brennan leaned closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
“I can take you home.” The tone of his voice vibrates something inside me.
The words brushed my skin.
He was close—too close. I could smell him. Soap. Whiskey. Something distinctly Brennan.
His hand rested on the bar behind me, not touching, but boxing me in.
My gaze dropped to his mouth.
I remembered how it felt.
How he felt.
How good he felt.
The alcohol stripped away restraint, logic, professionalism.
All that was left was need.
So I leaned in.
And kissed him.