Page 52 of Doctor One Night

I glance over at Frankie, her face softened by the glow of the streetlights. There’s something about the way she moves, the way her hair catches the light, that makes it hard to look away. I’ve been trying to keep it professional, to stay focused on the work, but the more time I spend with her, the harder it gets to maintain that distance.

We stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, and there is a palpable force in the cool night air. I can’t stop thinking about how easy it was to talk to her tonight, how comfortable it felt—like we were on the same wavelength, even when we weren’t talking about anything important.

As the light changes and we cross the street, Frankie’s hand brushes against mine, just for a second, and my body turns into a sensory-seeking missile. The touch is so fleeting, so light, that it could have been an accident. But it sends an electric current through me, something that bypasses my brain entirely and goes straight to instinct.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I reach out and gently grab her hand, stopping her in her tracks just as we reach the sidewalk. She turns to look at me, her eyes wide with surprise, but there’s something else there too—something that mirrors the pull I’ve been trying to resist.

“Frankie,” I say, my voice low, rougher than I intended. I don’t know what I’m about to say next, if I’m about to say anything at all, because suddenly, the words don’t seem important anymore.

It’s as if my body has a mind of its own, and before I can stop myself, I’m stepping closer, my free hand coming up to cup her cheek. She doesn’t pull away; instead, she leans into my touch, her eyes searching mine, as if she’s waiting for me to make the next move.

And then, without thinking, I do. I lean down and press my lips to hers, the kiss soft at first, tentative, like I’m testing the waters. But the moment our lips meet, it’s like something snaps inside me—a floodgate opening, releasing everything I’ve been holding back.

Frankie responds almost immediately, her hands sliding up to rest against my chest, grasping my shirt into two fistfuls, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, becomes more urgent, more intense. I can’t help the low groan that escapes from the back of my throat. It’s like I’ve been starving for this, for her, and now that I’ve had a taste, I don’t want to stop.

The world around us blurs, fades away, until it’s just the two of us, standing in the middle of the city street, lost in each other. The kiss is sensual, almost too much, but it’s everything my instinct knew it would be. It’s like my body is finally being honest, doing what I’ve been too afraid to admit I wanted.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, our foreheads resting against each other. The air between us crackles with tension, with something new, something we’ve been trying to avoid but can’t anymore.

“I… I didn’t mean for that to happen,” I murmur, my voice rough, still out of breath. But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. I meant every second of it to happen.

Frankie’s eyes meet mine, and I can see the same confusion, the same conflict swirling there. But there’s something else too, telling me she’s as into this as I am, even if neither of us knows what the hell to do about it.

My mind is spinning, trying to come up with something appropriate to say while also assessing what that meant. I want to follow her lead since she is so self-assured and measured, but I can tell she is waiting to see what I say, what I do.

The reality of whatever this is, both together with work, and this blossoming “thing,” whatever it is, after work, we can’t just pretend that didn’t happen. We also can’t dive headfirst into something that neither of us is sure what it is.

Frankie shifts slightly, her hand still resting on my lower back after loosening the hug. I can see the conflict in her eyes—like, what the fuck.

“I… I should probably head home,” she finally says, her voice soft but steady. She takes a small step back, her hand slipping away from my body. The loss of her touch is immediate and sharp.

“Yeah,” I agree, though the word is like sandpaper in my throat. “We have a busy day tomorrow. I have two surgeries early before our meeting with Bench.”

Her eyes flicker with something. I'm not sure if it is disappointment or relief. Maybe both. She nods slowly, her gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before she looks back up at me. “Thank you for tonight. This was a delightful change to my boring schedule.”

There’s so much more I want to say, but the words get tangled up in my head, stuck somewhere between what I feel and what I’m afraid to admit. Instead, I just nod, the silence stretching out between us like a chasm.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, taking another step back, putting more distance between us. Her voice is quiet, almost tentative, like she’s testing the waters of whatever this is between us now.

“Yeah,” I reply, trying to muster up a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Tomorrow.”

She hesitates for just a second like she might say something else, but then she turns and starts walking away. I watch her go, my chest tight, every instinct in me screaming to call her back, to close the gap between us again. But I stay rooted in place, knowing that this is how it has to be. For now.

As she disappears around the corner, I let out my breath, the night suddenly a lot more dreary than it did a few minutes ago.

We’re both in too deep already, and if we’re going to make anything of this—whatever “this” is—we have to take it one step at a time. Rushing in will only make everything more complicated and confusing.

We both seem to be aware that if we hadn't already, we've crossed a line, and there’s no going back. And finally, for the first time since all of this started months ago, I don’t want to.

Tuesday, May 28

UAB Hospital

9:32 am

The OR is quiet, the only sounds coming from the steady beeping of the monitors and the soft murmurs of my surgical team. We’ve been at this one since six this morning, and we are making good time.

I’m in my element, finishing up a routine coronary artery bypass grafting, a CABG, as my team and I call it. My hands move swiftly, suturing the graft into place, making sure the blood flow is restored to the heart. It’s a familiar rhythm, one I’ve done countless times before, and yet today, my mind keeps drifting away from the task at hand.

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