Page 3 of Clinically Awkward

“No promises,” Fitz replied, not missing a beat.

Julien’s eye twitched even harder in response, the tension in the room thickening.

Sensing the need to redirect, Gabriel stepped in. “Right,” he said, clearly taking pity on our fearless leader. “The schedule. What’ve we got?”

Julien paused and took a deep breath, visibly collecting himself. This was the same man capable of performing twelve-hour brain surgeries without breaking a sweat, yet simply being in a room with five other doctors seemed to push him to his limits. It was clear that fatherhood and marriage had not increased his patience for chaos.

“Thank you, Gabriel,” he said tightly. “As I was saying⁠—”

“How are the triplets?” Nathan interrupted. “Still not sleeping?”

Julien’s expression suggested he was seriously considering homicide. “They’re four months old. No, they’re not sleeping.”

“Athena still doing that crystal thing?” I asked, genuinely curious. Julien’s wife was a Wiccan who believed in the healing power of the universe, which was hilarious given that Julien believed in the healing power of peer-reviewed medical journals and nothing else.

“She has arranged rose quartz around their cribs,” Julien said, his voice flat. “For ‘peaceful energy.’”

“Is it working?” Gabriel asked.

“No.”

“Have you tried actual medicine?” Hayden suggested. “Perhaps some⁠—”

“I am not drugging my infant children,” Julien snapped. “And before anyone suggests it, no, whiskey in their bottles is not a viable solution.”

“Worked for generations,” Fitz mumbled.

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m never helping. That’s my brand.”

Julien glanced upward, his demeanor torn between seeking divine patience and calculating the likelihood of escaping justice should he resort to violence against his colleagues. The weight of the situation was evident in his expression.

With a voice that sounded strained and dangerously close to a breakdown, Julien attempted to restore order. “The schedule,” he began, determined to press forward. “Monday: Nathan, you’re responsible for the Morrison follow-up at ten o’clock. Quinton, you’ll be covering the ER until three. Gabriel, your morning will be spent on well-child checks.” Julien then paused, directing a look of barely concealed distaste at Fitz, our hungover OBGYN. “Fitz, you have Mrs. Chen at eleven. Please try not to vomit on her.”

Fitz, lacking both enthusiasm and assurance, responded dryly, “No promises.”

“Tuesday,” Julien continued, determinedly ignoring him, “we have⁠—”

The door burst open as Winnifred Potter stormed in like an avenging angel in sensible heels. She was holding a coffee cup in one hand and her phone in the other, and her expression suggested that someone was about to die.

That someone was definitely Fitz.

“You,” she said, pointing at him with her coffee cup. “Conference room. Now.”

Fitz, who had been slumped in his chair like a man accepting his fate, suddenly sat up very straight. “I’m in a meeting.”

“I don’t care if you’re performing open-heart surgery,” Winnie clipped. “We need to discuss your completely inappropriate phone call from last night.”

“I don’t remember any phone call,” Fitz said, which was possibly the worst defense in the history of defenses.

“Administrative competence?” Winnie’s voice could have cut glass. “Filing paperwork together?”

“That could mean anything,” Fitz tried.

“It means you’re an idiot,” Winnie said. “Conference room. Now. Or I’m forwarding your voicemail to HR.”

Fitz looked around the table, clearly hoping for backup. We all stared back at him with varying degrees of amusement and zero sympathy.