Page 53 of Doctor One Night

I should be focused solely on this patient, on making sure everything goes perfectly, but I can’t stop thinking about what’s coming later today—the meeting with Theo Bench and Frankie, the next steps for our pacemaker trial. And, if I’m being honest, the memory of last night keeps sneaking in, unbidden and unwelcome.

“Dr. Parrish, all vitals are stable,” one of the nurses says, snapping me back to the present.

“Good,” I reply, my voice steady even as my mind continues to race. I glance at the monitors, confirming the readings for myself before turning my attention back to the sutures. The graft is secure, the heart is beating strong, and we’re almost done here.

As I carefully close the incision, I can’t help but replay last night’s walk with Frankie, the way her lips felt against mine as our time was coming to an end. My dick twitches a bit at the memory of the way her arms felt wrapped around me.

I should be thinking about the trial, about what we’re going to discuss this afternoon. Theo’s been pushing hard to get everything ready for the next phase, and today’s meeting is critical. We need to finalize the protocol, ensure we’re all on the same page before we present it to the FDA for approval. It’s a huge step forward, and I can’t lose my focus.

Instead, I’m thinking about how I’m going to face Frankie after everything that happened between us. Last night was different, and it’s gnawing at me. I’ve been able to chalk up the two times in the lab as a product of extenuating circumstances. But last night was an unforced error, and there is nothing I can pin it on except what is going on inside of me regarding my growing affection for her.

“Almost done,” I murmur, more to myself than to anyone else, as I finish the final stitches. The surgery went smoothly—textbook, really—but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m off my game today.

I step back, letting the nurse take over the closing, and strip off my gloves, the cool air hitting my bare hands. Normally, I’d be relieved at the end of a successful surgery, but today there’s no satisfaction. Just a gnawing anxiety about the meeting this afternoon, about seeing Frankie again.

“Dr. Parrish,” one resident says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Everything looks good. Should we proceed with post-op protocols?”

“Yes,” I reply, giving a quick nod. “Make sure the patient is monitored closely for any signs of complications. I’ll check in on her later.”

As I walk out of the OR, I push the thoughts of Frankie and the trial to the back of my mind, at least for a few more hours. But it’s no use. They’re there, just beneath the surface, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

Today is another full one. I’ve got a meeting with Dibbins in between surgeries and then a few hours before the meeting with Bench, so I need to get my head straight. I can’t afford to be distracted, not with so much riding on this project.

2:12 pm

I’m peeling off my surgical gown, the material sticky with sweat from the protective layers, when I hear the door to the locker room swing open. I glance over my shoulder to see Shep Duncan walking in, looking as worn out as I am. He’s already pulling off his gloves, his face set in that focused expression he always wears after a tough case.

“What’s up, Duncan?” I greet him, tossing my gown into the bin and reaching for my scrub top.

“Hunter,” Shep nods, his voice a little gravelly, probably from hours of talking his team through the intricacies of brain surgery. He starts removing his own gear, and I can see the fatigue in his movements, the kind that comes after a particularly grueling procedure.

“How’d your case go?” I ask, more out of habit than anything. Shep’s a damn good neurosurgeon, and his cases are often far more complex than mine.

“Complicated,” Shep admits, pulling off his mask. “Had to navigate through some seriously delicate tissue. Took longer than expected, but the patient pulled through. It's a glioblastoma, so it's a tough one. I think we bought him some significant time. Touch and go for a while, though.”

I nod, knowing how those kinds of surgeries can drain you, both physically and emotionally. “Glad to hear it, man. Mine was routine, my second CABG today. Quick and clean, no surprises.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, hanging up his gown and reaching for his scrub shirt. “I'd take that.”

As we both start washing up, Shep glances at me sideways, a look I’ve come to recognize. He’s got something on his mind. “So, did you ever get a chance to talk with Dibbins about your mom’s Hodgkin's?”

I pause, letting the warm water run over my hands as I think back to earlier today. “Yeah, actually, I did. Spoke with him this morning in between surgeries.”

Shep raises an eyebrow, clearly interested. “And?”

I take a deep breath, as a strange mix of relief and tension consume me. “He’s going to review her chart notes and treatment plan, see if there’s anything we’re missing or if there’s a better approach we haven’t considered.”

Shep nods, his expression serious. “Good. I’m glad you talked to him. Dibbins knows his shit, and it’s important you’re on top of it, especially with it being your mom.”

I glance at Shep, grateful for his friendship. “Yeah. Thanks for pushing me on that. I needed to get over myself and actually do something.”

Shep gives me a small, understanding smile. “It’s never easy dealing with this stuff when it’s personal. But you know as well as I do that getting another set of eyes on it can make all the difference.”

“Exactly,” I agree, drying my hands off and finding myself a little more settled. “Its weird being on this side of things—trying to be the concerned son and the objective doctor at the same time.”

“Can’t say I envy you,” Shep replies, slinging his towel over his shoulder. “But you’ve got good instincts, Hunter. Trust them.”

I give him a nod of appreciation. “Thanks, dude. I’ll see what Dibbins comes up with.”

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