Page 7 of Doctor One Night

They drilled it into me that hard work was the only path to happiness in life and that there was no room for failure and no time for distractions. As much as I resented it and still do to this day, it’s hard-wired into me now. That is how I live.

Their high-pressure campaign worked, I guess. I graduated at the top of my class, got into the best undergrad and med schools, and became the surgeon they always said I could be. But somewhere along the way, I lost sight of what I wanted, if I ever even knew. I was always told what I would be, and I just accepted it.

Trading happiness for perfection isn’t necessarily the best bargain.

I’m sure it’s why I am the way I am—why I bury myself in work, why I keep people at a distance. It’s easier to focus on the next surgery, the next challenge, than to think about how I’ve built my life around expectations that were never really my own.

I’m good at what I do, but there’s always that voice in the back of my mind, telling me it’s not enough. That it will never be enough.

I love my parents, I suppose. But it’s a distant kind of love, stretched thin over years of resentment and unmet expectations on both sides.

My father died a few years ago and it was both a relief and extremely painful. My mother blamed me for his death, in a way, and made it seem like I had failed by not saving him. That is the type of relationship we have.

We talk on holidays, mostly out of obligation. Mother will ask about my work, and I’ll give her the highlights, the things that sound impressive enough to satisfy her. But we don’t talk about the things that matter. There’s no room for that in the world they built for me.

I finish my water and push off the counter to head toward the bedroom, kicking off my shoes as I go. Quickly, I strip off my clothes and head into the bathroom, turning on the shower. As the water heats up, I catch a glimpse of the dark bags under my eyes in the mirror. Damn, I look like shit.

The tattoos on my chest and arms are stark against my skin—remnants from my rebellion years ago, when I thought I could carve out a piece of myself that wasn’t dictated by anyone else. But they seem distant now, more like reminders of a person I once wanted to be than who I am.

I step into the shower and let the hot water wash over me as I try to clear my mind. Even here, in the one place that’s supposed to be my sanctuary, I can’t escape the thoughts that keep circling back: the pressure to be the best, the constant drive to push harder, work longer, achieve more.

As the water pounds against my back, I can’t help but wonder what it’s cost me. And if, someday, it’ll be too much. Can I keep this up forever?

My hand finds its way to my chest, tracing the lines of ink that adorn my skin. They're a part of me, a part of the rebellion that's been brewing inside of me since I was a kid. But that rebellion feels hollow tonight, because it's not the ink I'm thinking of—it's her.

Seeing her brought all of it back to the front of my mind. It’s a good thing we don’t see each other regularly because she’s got my head all turned around.

I close my eyes, and there she is. I can see her humble smirk, hear the sound of her voice as she called out my name… It's been half a year since that night, since we lost ourselves in the lab, but the memory is so vivid like it was yesterday.

My hand slides lower, wrapping around my shaft, the water slicking my movements. I grip tighter, the pressure building as I think of Frankie, of the way her body felt against mine, the heat of her skin, the softness of her lips.

It's too risky to let her in, too likely to end in disappointment or heartache. But a man can always dream. Fantasy is safe and fulfilling enough for my needs.

I stroke harder, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through me. My breaths come faster, my pulse thundering in my ears as I picture her beneath me… Her green eyes looking up at me with that mix of challenge and desire that sets me off without even a touch.

The water pounds down, mingling with the sweat on my brow as I chase the release that's been building since the moment I saw her in the hallway, her papers scattering around us like fallen leaves. I remember the way she looked at me. The surprise in her eyes was quickly replaced by that quiet confidence.

My movements become more frenzied, my grip on reality slipping as I lose myself in the fantasy. I can almost feel her hands on me, her breath on my neck as our bodies move together in that rough, quick experience we shared.

“Fuck!” I yell out.

With a low groan, I come. The intensity of it washes over me as I lean against the cool tile of the shower wall. The water continues to pour down around me, a steady beat that mimics the rhythm of my heart before it gradually slows to its usual pace.

For a moment, I allow myself to bask in the aftermath, to savor the fleeting sensation of peace that wraps around me. But as the water starts to cool, reality seeps back in. I turn off the shower and step out, grabbing a towel and drying off.

I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist as I head into the bedroom. The steam follows me, clouding the mirror, but the cool air from the bedroom hits my skin, grounding me back into reality. My phone’s screen lights up on the nightstand, catching my eye.

Missed call.

I swipe it off the stand, and my stomach tightens when I see her name—Mother. It’s 11:30 at night here in Alabama, which means it’s 9:30 on the West Coast. She has zero respect.

It's not necessarily an unreasonable hour in California, but she knows I'm two hours ahead. Shit like this is what really pisses me off. She knows I work long hours and that I’m usually exhausted by the time I get home. But that’s my mother for you—always pushing, never aware, or maybe she doesn’t care, what might be going on for me.

The tension is building in my shoulders again, the brief relief from the shower already fading.

I know I should call her back, even though it’s the absolute last thing I want to do right now. It’s probably nothing, some trivial update she could’ve waited until tomorrow to share.

But I can’t shake the possibility that it might be something important. Something related to the Hodgkin’s lymphoma she was diagnosed with just over a month ago.

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