I didn’t need the aide.
I watched her head for the door. She paused at the threshold without turning around.
“Good night, Scorch,” she said, and went.
THE MONITOR BEEPED. Down the hall a cart rattled, voices went by low and professional, and the floor dropped into its after-hours gear, machines still running, everything just turned down.
She was back on shift in the morning. I hadn’t gotten her number. I hadn’t gotten a yes on dinner. I lay back and stared at the ceiling. I had all night.
Chapter Three
Whitley
I PARKED ON LEVEL TWO. I always park on level three, same end spot by the stairwell, three years of the same muscle memory, and I didn't figure it out until I was already heading up when I should've been heading down. My feet had made their own arrangements for the morning and hadn't seen fit to mention it.
Faith was finishing her overnight at the nurses' station when I came onto the floor, auburn hair loose over her scrubs, and the grin she was actively trying not to have was already mostly there by the time I'd gotten two steps past the door.
“Patel signed the discharge orders at six-fifteen,” she said, sliding the paperwork across. “His ride hasn’t checked in yet.”
She gathered her jacket and her enormous canvas tote and paused.
“You’ve got something on your face,” she said.
I waited.
“Looks like it might be a feeling,” she said, and walked out before I could answer.
I stood at the nurses’ station with the discharge paperwork in my hand. Three years working alongside your best friend, who’d known you since your first clinical rotation and had never once missed a single thing, was a significantly underrated liability.
I put the paperwork under my arm and went.
THE DOOR TO 407 WASopen.
Scorch was sitting on the edge of the bed, discharge paperwork in his hands: black jeans, black tee, the cut on, reading the post-op instruction sheet straight through. No IV pole. No monitor leads. His effects were on the tray table in a neat stack: wallet, keys, phone, watch.
He hadn’t seen me yet, which gave me two full seconds to take in what six-foot-three out of a hospital gown looked like.
The answer was: considerably different.
The cut had the club patch on the back, bold and dark against the black. He had his forearms on his knees and his head bent over the paperwork, and the breadth of his shoulders under the leather made the room feel right-sized for the first time since I’d walked onto this floor. Heat slid under my sternum and pressed south and settled low, and I gave it exactly the time it took to clip my pen to the chart.
His eyes came up. Dark eyes did a fast read: scrubs, clipboard, same expression.
“There she is,” he said.
“Dr. Patel’s orders are signed,” I said. “Your ride hasn’t checked in yet.”
He held up the discharge packet. “I’ve been reading.”
“I see that.” I set the chart down and pulled the rolling chair around. “Questions first or straight through the sheet?”
“Let’s do questions.”
I sat down. “Go ahead, then.”
He held up the sheet. “Wound care twice daily: what constitutes soiled? Because I know where your threshold is and mine is probably not in the same zip code.”
“Visible drainage, dressing saturation, or any wetness from outside in. Sweat counts.”
