Page 15 of Priest

Lila came slower.

She has soft brown hair usually braided back for shifts and a steadiness people underestimate until she speaks. In trauma, she can read my face before I finish giving the order. I can glance at her and know she’s already watching the airway or reaching for the supply I’m about to ask for.

We work well together.

That still surprises me.

One evening after a late shift, I step out of the hospital into cooling air, my shoulders loosening now that the day has released its grip. Somewhere down the street, a motorcycle revs.

The sound cuts clean through me.

My body reacts before my brain catches up. Heart stuttering. Breath catching as I turn toward the noise.

For half a second, I expect black paint and familiar chrome. I expect that deep rumble that used to settle something in me I never wanted to name.

But it isn’t him.

It’s just a man on a beat-up motorcycle, wearing a cheap helmet, roaring past the lot without a second look.

I let out a slow breath and press my hand against my thigh, reminding myself where I am now.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

The sound itself fades fast. The memory it wakes up stays longer.

It’s how fast my body remembered.

Bodies keep their own records.

The next day, I’m in trauma bay three when I notice the tattoo.

Clean blackwork marks the patient’s forearm, a memorial piece still healing at the edges.

My fingers still for just a beat as I scan the monitor.

He would’ve taken that line slower.

The thought slips in so naturally it hurts.

I blink, refocus, and finish the exam.

“Blue?” Evan murmurs beside me.

I look up. “Yeah.”

“You drifted.”

“Sorry,” I say lightly. “Long shift.”

He studies me for one second too long, then hands me the next chart without another word.

I appreciate that about him. He notices without turning it into a demand.

In the break room later, Lila slides into the chair across from me and nudges a granola bar my way.

“You settling in okay?” she asks.