“Thank you.”
“I mean it,” he adds. “Not everyone catches the small things.”
I nod, used to that kind of praise, comfortable with it. Then his gaze shifts subtly but unmistakably.
“And I have to say,” he continues, voice light, “you make these floors feel less … clinical.”
I blink. “I’m not sure what that means.”
He smiles. “It means patients respond to you. And …” His eyes flick briefly to my face. My hair is pulled loose today instead of pinned back. “You bring some warmth with you.”
Heat creeps up my neck. Before I can respond, Frank stirs.
“Am I missing compliments?” he murmurs without opening his eyes. “Because I feel like I should be awake for that.”
Dr. Owens chuckles. “Nothing scandalous.”
“Shame,” Frank mutters. “I live for scandal now.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. It’s not polite laughter. Or professional. It’s a soft, surprised giggle that catches me off guard as much as it probably does anyone else.
Dr. Owen’s smile deepens.
“Well,” he says, straightening, “I’ll let you get back to it. If you ever want to talk shop—or anything else—I’m usually around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, still smiling.
As he turns to leave, I feel it before I see it. The shift.
Colton stands in the doorway.
His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his posture isn’t. His shoulders are rigid, his jaw set so tight that it looks painful.
Dr. Owens nods at him. “Fisher.”
Colton doesn’t return the smile. “Owens.”
Their eyes hold for a beat too long. Then Dr. Owens leaves, yet Colton doesn’t move to give him the respectful room to exit.
Once he’s gone, the silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.
Frank opens one eye. “Did I miss something?”
“No,” Colton says shortly. “You’re fine.”
Then he turns and walks out himself. Just like that. And I don’t have the energy to analyze it.
The rest of the shift crawls.
I don’t see Colton again until the end of the day, and that feels deliberate. He avoids the nurses’ station. Leaves rooms when I enter. Speaks to me only when necessary. And even then, he’s clipped.
By the time I reach the locker room, my nerves are shot. I’m halfway through untying my shoes when I hear the door open behind me.
I don’t have to look to know it’s him. The air changes. The space feels smaller. I straighten slowly, turning to face him.
He’s standing by his locker, white coat already off, sleeves rolled up, leaning against the metal.
“So,” he says coolly, “looks like you had a good afternoon.”
