Page 39 of Doctor Hot Mess

The cool air and the fading streaks of pink and gold are like a quiet reward after a long day. It’s not hard to see why he’d spend time out here; it’s inviting, unpretentious, and just a little bit calming in its own, understated way.

Jonah’s already outside, leaning back in one of the sleek patio chairs. He has a lowball glass sitting in front of him and his hands laced behind his head. He looks as at ease as ever, that easy charm practically woven into his DNA. It’s always been his thing—calm, collected, like nothing ever rattles him. But tonight, there’s something quieter about him, like the edge has softened in a way that draws me in.

“It’s about time,” he says with a smirk as I step out. “I was beginning to think you bailed on me.”

“I had to change,” I reply, settling into the chair across from him. “You can’t expect me to drink in scrubs.”

He chuckles, raising his glass. “Fair point. What’ll it be? I’ve got bourbon, vodka, gin...”

“Surprise me,” I say, kicking off my shoes and tucking my feet beneath me.

Jonah disappears inside, and I take a moment to let the week catch up with me. It’s been nonstop—half-shifts that still managed to feel like double shifts, Lila’s health scare after her cracked rib led to a small pneumothorax, and trying to carve out some semblance of normalcy in between.

But despite the busy week, it’s been... better. Easier, somehow, being around Jonah. We’ve found a rhythm again, enough that I don’t feel like I’m walking on eggshells anymore.

He returns a moment later, handing me a glass of white wine. “Didn’t peg you for bourbon,” he says, reclaiming his seat.

“Good call,” I say, taking a sip. “Margarita, now we’re talking. Look at you, Dr. Mixologist.”

“I try,” he teases, and I laugh. “I’m not super picky about my drinks, but I enjoy experimenting and coming up with concoctions.”

“Thanks for inviting me over,” I say after a moment. “It’s nice to just... sit for a while. For some reason, the hospital was a madhouse today.”

“It’s nice having you here,” he replies, and there’s something genuine in his tone that makes me glance at him. His usual charm is still there, but it’s softer now, less practiced. “Especially after the week we’ve had.”

“How’s Lila doing today?” I ask, shifting the conversation.

“She’s better,” Jonah says, swirling the liquid in his glass absently. “Still sore, obviously, but her breathing’s improved a lot. Her doctor thinks she should be back to baseline by next week. Hopefully, this is the last setback.”

“Good,” I say, relieved. “She’s been through a lot.”

“She has,” he agrees. “But leave it to her to bounce back and still find a way to make fun of me for how I fold my laundry.”

I grin. “Wait, you fold your laundry? You're full of surprises.”

“Funny,” he says dryly. “But yeah, apparently, I don’t do it ‘properly.’ Lila’s been trying to school me all week. Says I need to roll my shirts or some nonsense.”

“Sounds like you’ve been dethroned as the most stubborn Bellinger,” I tease.

He smirks. “She’s been good company, though. Even when she’s bossing me around.”

The conversation drifts from Lila to lighter topics—a patient story Jonah shares that has me laughing so hard I nearly spill my wine and a recount of how I accidentally took someone else’s lunch from the staff fridge this week. The easy banter feels familiar, comforting, like slipping into something warm and worn-in.

“This,” Jonah says, his voice softer now, “is nice.”

I glance at him, and for a moment, the humor fades, replaced by something quieter. “Yeah,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “It is.”

Jonah leans back, the dim light from the patio lanterns catching in the amber liquid of his drink. He looks around as if he’s taking it all in and then lands back on me. His expression is soft but searching, as though he’s trying to read between the lines of everything we’ve just said.

“I missed this,” he says quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to let the words slip out.

My heart stutters. “What?”

“This,” he repeats, gesturing vaguely between us with his glass. “Talking. Laughing. You not being mad at me.”

I raise an eyebrow, letting his words hang in the air for a moment. “You’re lucky I’m not holding a grudge,” I say lightly, setting my margarita on the table beside me. “I could’ve dragged it out and really made you sweat.”

His mouth tilts into a small grin, but there’s something behind it—something more vulnerable. “I probably deserved that.”

---