By the timeI get to the hospital, I’m running on fumes and sheer muscle memory. My body’s here, but my brain is still in the mess of heat, sweat, and scent I left in that bed.
I go straight to my office without speaking to anyone.
There’s a plastic garment bag hanging on the hook behind my door. I keep a couple extra changes of clothes here for emergencies, but I’ve never been more grateful for that foresight than I am right now.
I strip quickly, dropping the wrinkled T-shirt and jeans into the small laundry bin in the corner. Everything still smells like her. I could burn it all and still smell her for a week.
My skin is clean—we all showered before we left—but the phantom heat is still under the surface.
I pull on fresh scrubs, the light blue fabric a little too crisp after three days in soft cotton. Next, a white coat, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
My hands move automatically, tucking my stethoscope into my pocket, checking for my penlight, and ID badge clipped to my chest. I’m functioning, but my head’s nowhere close to clear.
The extra peppermint bottle sits in its usual spot on the corner of my desk, next to the ceramic mug full of pens. I pick it up, unscrew the lid, and inhale sharply.
The bite of it hits my sinuses hard, a clean, bracing sting. I close my eyes and force a slow breath in.
One. Two. Three.
If I don’t reset, I’m going to spend the entire night imagining her here in my office. Bent over this desk, her cheek pressed to the cold surface, her scent thickening the air until I can think of nothing but driving into her repeatedly…
“Stop,” I mutter under my breath, setting the bottle down harder than I mean to. The sound echoes too loudly in the small room.
I press the intercom button on my phone.
“Becca? Can you come in here for a second?”
The door opens a moment later. Becca steps in, sharp-eyed, one of the best nurse practitioners I’ve ever worked with. She doesn’t waste words.
“You get theSensurexdelivery I told you about?” I ask, reaching for the clipboard on my desk. My voice comes out rougher than intended.
“It came in yesterday morning,” she says. “You want me to pull some for you?”
“Yes. We’re running low on the on-call stock.” I pause. “Anything else I should know about before I start rounds?”
She runs me through the patient list—one appendectomy post-op, a couple of OB checks, and an elderly Alpha with pneumonia in room six. I nod through it, making notes on my clipboard.
When she’s gone, I take another deep breath and focus on the stack of charts waiting for me.
Paperwork is grounding—methodical, transparent, predictable. I review the patients’ vitals, lab reports, andprogress notes. My pen moves steadily down the pages, signing off orders, jotting clarifications.
By the time I step out into the hallway, the ward is in full swing. Voices carry down the corridor—a baby crying in pediatrics, the low murmur of two residents discussing a case.
I head toward the first patient room, chart in hand.
The whispering starts about halfway there.
It’s subtle at first—a nurse’s voice cutting off mid-sentence when I pass, two orderlies glancing my way before ducking into a supply closet.
My jaw tightens. I ignore it. Or I try to.
Rounds take an hour. By the time I’m heading back toward my office, the tension in the air is thicker than it was when I arrived. I find Becca at the nurse’s station, tapping notes into the computer.
“What’s going on?” I ask quietly. “Everyone’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.”
She hesitates. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
