“Bossy,” he murmurs.
“Efficient,” I counter, but my voice isn’t steady.
He throws without even looking at the board.
I chastise him with the click on my tongue. “You’re not even trying.”
“Oh, I really think I am.”
The air between us feels thick, buzzing, and for a beat too long, neither of us moves. He leans in slightly, close enough that I catch the scent of pine on his clothing and beer on his breath.
“Buttercup,” he says again, softer this time.
“That’s awful,” I whisper back.
He laughs quietly but doesn’t back away. The tension tilts—something about his nearness, the heat, the noise of the bar fading out. My heart flirts with tachycardia.
And just before he can close the distance, I step back, pulse fluttering in my throat. “Dance with me instead.”
His brow furrows for half a second, then the grin returns. “You sure that’s a fair trade?”
“No,” I say, grabbing his hand and bringing him toward the crowd. “But there’s privacy in the crowd.” I flick my eyes to the table where there’re at least three nurses starting the gossip on Daniel and me.
He laughs. The music swells, lights flicker, and for the first time all night, I stop thinking about what Ishouldfeel and just move. We weave back through the crowd, lights slicing across faces. The pulse of the bass is in sync with my blood pumping.
His thumb brushes my wrist, and he wraps his arm around my waist, steadying me against him. My breath catches for a second when the scent of his cologne mixes with the artificial smoke on the dance floor.
“You’ve got some tragic aim,” I say, sliding my arms up his chest.
“Only at darts.”
I arch my brow. “Am I supposed to take your word for it?”
He leans in, eyes glinting. “Let me show you?”
His hand rests on the small of my back, and the other curls around the back of my neck, tentative, but I don’t move away. We aren’t even pretending to dance. His eyes find mine, and he traces his nose with mine, giving me one more chance to stop him. When I don’t, his mouth lands on mine, warm and eager. He isn’t forceful or clumsy, but his tongue dances around mine—it’s still too much, too fast. For a second, I let it happen. His mouth is expertly careful, and I want to want this.
Then my pulse jumps wrong—palpitations, erratic and uneven. One beat slow, the next too fast. My chest tightens, guilt pressing down through bone and gut like a misplaced rhythm I can’t regulate. I’m not with Nate, and still?—
I step back, breath unsteady. “I’m sorry. I just… can’t.”
Daniel blinks, startled but kind, hands lifted in soft retreat. “Hey, it’s okay.” He exhales, eyes gentler than I deserve. “I know a bit of what’s going on. My aim’s shit, but I’m a patient man.”
I nod and mumble something about needing air, then slip toward the patio. My pulse hasn’t leveled; it just beats wrong in new places. The cold night hits my cheeks, grounding and clean, the kind of chill that makes my skin prickle.
With my eyes closed, the image of Nate not moving away, his lips against someone else’s, and his hand on her waist makes my chest do thatthingagain: the offbeat thud of an arrhythmia, harmless maybe, psychosomatic probably, but impossible to ignore.
It stings, but not the way it used to. Not the kiss but the lingering stabbing reality that I miscalculated my entire future. Maybe that’s okay; I can focus on my own path. The ache shifts, dulls, steadying to baseline.
Tonight, all I can handle is flirting with who’s around. That’s enough for now. Underneath it lays the reminder of why I let Nate go.
CHAPTER 15
The Reset
Robyn
The patient’sroom is bright with the overhead fluorescents flattening everything into sharp edges. Another week’s gone by, and even though everything’s changed for me, nothing has at work. Morning rounds still go the way they go, some call it necessary training, others trial by fire. For me, it’s a bit like an intentional chipping away at your confidence by jabbing, painstaking questions designed to make you fail in front of an audience. While the long window at the far end frames the city in glass and steel, white coats, clipped voices, and the soft shuffle of pens scribbling over paper wait in front of me. I stand at the foot of the bed, tablet in hand, presenting the case the way I’ve done a hundred times before, voice steady enough to pass, even as something in me feels out of sync.
