NINETEEN
CALLUM
The bloodstains cling to the fabric, stubborn as everything else this week.
I shove the sheets back into the washing machine.
Maybe a hotter setting will do the trick.
As the machine starts again, Leith’s voice echoes in my head.
“She’s not answering her phone, Han. If I weren’t stuck here in Dubai, I’d have kicked her door down myself by now.”
“So? Send one of your assistants.”
“Why don’t I let them tuck me in at night, too?” Leith snapped, as if I’d just suggested handing his empire to a toddler. “Thought Jordie said you were smart.”
“Leith, what exactly do you want me to do?”
A pause, like he was figuring out how much pride he could stomach losing. “Just . . . check on her.”
“You don’t have friends of hers you can call?”
Leith lets out a breath, like: yes, I know how this sounds.
“You’ve met her, Callum. Does she strike you as someone who collects people easily?”
Fair.
His voice roughened. “She works ward to ward. Always passing through, never long enough anywhere to stick. And between the shifts, the book boyfriends, and her body being a traitorous little bitch, she doesn’t exactly have time to build a thriving social circle.”
“Why me, then?”
“Because you’re a doctor. You’ve got that no-bullshit face that she hasn’t learned how to lie yet. Figured that gave you an edge. Just see if she’s . . . okay . . .” Then—low, grudging, scraping his throat on the way out, “Please.”
“Fine. Where does she live?” The words come out flat. Begrudging. Because I’m already late for drinking and wallowing.
“I’ll send you the address. It’s on The Strand. Blue door. The spare key is in the red hanging pot on the left. Can’t miss it. Only house that looks like it belongs in a goddamn storybook.”
I’d scoffed at the time, but standing here now in the middle of Jordie’s tiny, plant-infested laundry nook, I know exactly what he meant.
Her house is sandwiched between a steel-and-glass apartment block and a café that sells twelve-dollar turmeric lattes, like the city grew up around it and forgot to knock it down.
A two-story cottage with peeling white weatherboards and a ridiculous blue door, stubbornly holding its ground while the world modernizes around it.
Inside, books spill off every surface, breeding unchecked. Plants trail from macramé hangers and crowd the windows, clawing for light. Not delicate ones—stubborn ones. Snake plants, pathos, monsteras, peace lilies. All thriving out of spite.
There’s a faint scent of eucalyptus and old paper under the steam, grounding the space in something unapologetically lived-in. Cozy. Messy. Real.
I push off the washer; the floorboards creaking in the quiet. Back in the kitchen, I check the pot with the soup simmering. Stir. Taste.
Too bland.
I reach for the saltshaker and add a pinch. Taste again. Better.
Just like Mā used to make it—Sesame Oil Chicken Soup. Comfort in a bowl. Her cure for everything: hangovers, heartbreak, bad grades. And, apparently, now also catastrophic uterine warfare.
For a moment, I’m a kid again, perched on a crate in the restaurant kitchen, homework open, the air thick with stir-fries and the clang of woks. Mā shoving a spoon in my mouth and saying, “You’ll understand when you’re older. Good soup fixes everything.”
A strained whimper breaks my thoughts.
I set the spoon down, wipe my hands on the dish towel, and glance over my shoulder.
From where I stand, I can just see the top of Jordie’s head peeking over the backrest. She lifts it—slow, heavy. Her hair’s a mess, dark curls sticking out at awkward angles. I move carefully, rounding the kitchen bench until I’m behind the couch.
“Hey, Jordie,” I say, keeping my voice gentle. The way you’d talk to a skittish animal or maybe a toddler holding scissors.
Still, she startles. Her head snaps up, eyes finding mine, wide and sleep-dazed, genuinely wondering if she conjured me up.
“You’re . . . still here,” she rasps, voice all sandpaper and sleep.
“’Course I am.” I shrug, lips twitching. “Where else would I be?”
“Literally anywhere else but here.”
I snort. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to keep you alive. And Leith threatened to sue me for negligence.”
“Did he really?” She looks up at me, scrunching her nose.
“Not in those words. But yes.”
She blinks slowly, like that tracks. Like she’d expect nothing less from her billionaire best friend, whose emotional range is calibrated entirely in sarcasm and veiled threats.
I gesture to the kitchen and say, “Stay put. I made soup. Family recipe. You’re not eating that leftover pizza.”
“Technically, pizza covers all the food groups.”
“Not when it’s a cardboard relic, which it is at this point.”
I ladle the soup carefully; the rich broth steaming as it fills the bowl.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her shifting, propping herself higher. She looks less ghost and more like someone who might yell at me in the near future. It’s comforting. It’s a far cry from what I walked in on—blood, shaking hands, that pale, dazed look I can’t scrub from my head.
Didn’t think it’d rattle me the way it did. But maybe that’s what happens when it’s not a stranger. When it’s someone you know.
I shove the thought aside and set the tray down. Two bowls. One for her. One for me. Figured if I didn’t eat, she’d start bitching, and frankly, I don’t have the energy.
Jordie glances at the soup, cracking a tired grin. “You gonna airplane it into my mouth, or . . .?”
I snort, dropping onto the couch with my bowl. “You’re not so lucky. I only airplane for my niece and nephews.”
She looks at me with a small smile on her face, like she’s picturing it—me, making zooming noises and dramatic dives with a spoon.
The moment passes, soft and unspoken, and we settle into eating in silence. Not awkward. Just . . . quiet. The only sound is the clinking of spoons tapping ceramic. After a few minutes, I glance over. Jordie’s hunched over her bowl, scraping the bottom.
She pauses, spoon mid-air, hovering over the last bite. “Brilliant anesthetist. Master chef,” she murmurs, waving the spoon lazily. “What can’t you do?”
“Apparently?” I answer, deadpan, “stay out of other people’s business.”
She hums. It sounds almost like a laugh. But she shifts too fast and winces, sucking in a sharp breath.
I’m on my feet before I can think, grabbing the bowl from her trembling hands. “Alright. That’s enough.”
I head to the kitchen and set the bowls down. When I come back with water and pain meds, she’s already sunk back into the cushions. Her eyes flutter open when I crouch in front of her.
“Here.” I hand her the pills and water.
She blinks, then reaches, angling her head up as she takes the pills. I wait while she finishes the water, then take the glass and start to rise. Halfway up, her fingers brush my wrist.
I turn. She’s looking at me. Raw. Unfiltered.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “For everything.”
It’s quiet. Barely shaped. Like someone insisting on staying is foreign and new.
“Anytime,” I nod, throat tight. “I’ll clean up.”
Her eyes drift shut, lashes settling.
I turn to go.
But then—her fingers close around my wrist again.
Not a brush this time. A hold.
I glance back.
Her brows pull in like she’s thinking hard about something and doesn’t like the answer.
Then, slowly, “You’ve seen me naked.”
“Uh—” It comes out more cough than word. “Not my first time seeing a patient naked.”
“What would your girlfriend say?” Jordie asks, very concerned.
I drag a breath through my teeth, slow and measured, and glance away like maybe the right words are hiding somewhere between the grout lines in her kitchen tile.
“She’s not going to say anything,” I murmur.
“How come?”
I hesitate. Not because I think she won’t care—hell, it’s almost easier if she doesn’t—but because saying it out loud means it’s real.
I swallow hard, forcing the words out, each one scraping like it’s got barbed wire wrapped around it. “Claudia and I . . . we broke up.”
Jordie pushes herself upright with a wince. There’s a beat where her eyes find mine. I brace myself for it—the questions, the sympathy, her two-cents. But none of that comes.
Instead, she just nods and pats the space next to her.
I sit down, taking it as a silent invitation.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly, her voice skimming the edge of a sigh. “Are you okay?”
The way she asks the question hits me differently. It’s not the usual platitudes—those ones where people ask because it’s what you’re supposed to say, not because they really care about the answer.
I blow out a thin breath that barely qualifies as a laugh. “What do you want? The polite, noncommittal ‘I’ll be fine,’ or the fully unraveled spiral that ends with you recommending I see someone licensed?”
Jordie just tilts her head, gaze steady. “I want the version you want to tell me now.”
The truth is too raw to untangle. All I can give her is the simplest version.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be okay.”
She nods, hearing everything I didn’t say. Somehow, she knows the difference between “I’m fine” and “I’m functional” and doesn’t feel the need to call either a lie.
For a moment, I forget how exhausted she looks. Forget that she’s the one who should be resting. I glance down at my hands, flexing my fingers. And then the urge hits—sudden, absurd. I want to reach for her. Grab her hand. Ask for a hug. Just something to anchor myself.
I curl my fingers instead, let out a breath, and shake my head. “I want to talk about it, but . . . not right now.”
Jordie doesn’t push.
It’s rare to be seen this way. Cared for beyond surface-level sympathy.
Then, “Okay, well, now that you’ve successfully sidestepped your emotional trauma, can we circle back to mine? The part where you’ve seen me naked?”
I blink. Then—God help me—I laugh. “Why is that bothering you so much?”
Her eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t be bothered if I walked in on you naked?”
“I mean . . .” I smirk. “Depends. Was I flexing at the time?”
She giggles and smacks my chest weakly.
“Okay. Have you ever seen your other colleagues naked?”
The words hang there. Awkward. Stupid. Now I’m embarrassed.
I wrinkle my nose. “God, no.”
“How about your friends?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
I pause. “One guy. Med school. Too much tequila. A regrettable karaoke rendition of I Want It That Way that ended with him attempting a striptease and spraining his ankle.”
She snorts, shaking her head.
I glance down at my hands, fiddling with the corner of a cushion, then back at her.
“Maybe we should be friends,” I say, lighter than it deserves to be. “I mean, we both love Sriracha, and I know Darcy’s first name, so . . .”
Jordie stills. Just watches me for a moment, weighing the words. Then she smiles. Small. Real.
“Yeah?” she asks to make sure.
“Yeah.”
“Friends, then,” she says, the word coming out strange in her mouth, but not unwelcome.
She yawns, then rubs her nose with her palm in that funny way she always does when she’s sleepy.
“Alright, friend,” she says, dragging the word out with a grin, “on that note, I need to change my pad.”
I push to my feet and offer her my hand. “C’mon.”
She takes it, wincing as she gets up, still unsteady. I don’t let go, not until we’re at the bathroom door.
“Need help in there?”
“Oh, nonononononono—” Jordie shakes her head so fast it’s almost comical.
I think I clocked seven nos.
She looks at me, dead serious, and declares, “I solemnly swear that you will never, ever see me naked again.”