Page 18 of Brotan

I wait for the judgment, for the clinical assessment that all doctors eventually offer—the distance that makes tragedy bearable in our profession. It doesn't come.

"You think it's your fault." It's not a question.

I turn to face him, the words I've never spoken aloud suddenly desperate to escape. "I was distracted. The anesthesiologist had been drinking—I smelled it on him but didn't report it. I was worried about offending him, about hospital politics." The self-loathing burns in my throat. "I should have checked the medication myself. I should have noticed her blood pressure dropping. I should have—"

"Been perfect?" he interrupts, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "Never made a mistake?"

He's quiet, waiting for more, but I can't continue. Can't explain how the hospital covered it up, how they made it disappear with paperwork and legal maneuvering, how Jamie's husband looked at me at the funeral with bewildered grief that still haunts my dreams.

"So you ran." No judgment in his voice, just simple understanding.

"I tried to stay." I turn back to face him, finding his eyes softer than before. "But I couldn't keep walking those halls, seeing her everywhere. Knowing what I'd done—what I'd failed to do."

The admission hangs between us, raw and exposed. Something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe. Of what, I'm not sure. But for the first time since Jamie's death, I feel like someone truly sees me, not the mistake, not the failure, but the person drowning beneath the weight of it all.

He slides off the examination table, standing to his full height. This close, the size difference between us is stark—me barely reaching his chin, him a wall of green muscle and barely contained power. Yet nothing is threatening in his posture.

"You did good work, Doc." He gestures to his stitched hand. "Again."

Something unfurls in my chest at his acknowledgment—warm and unexpected. I duck my head to hide the flush I can feel spreading across my cheeks, the sudden quickening of my pulse. It shouldn't matter that he approves of my work, yet somehow it does.

"Just doing my job." The words sound hollow, inadequate.

"That what you told yourself in New York too? When you patched me up in that ambulance?"

His question catches me off guard, sending me back to that night—the chaos of the ER, the hostility directed at him, my own fierce determination that my oath applied to everyone, regardless of species. "I—"

"Because it wasn't just a job then." He steps closer, near enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. His scent envelops me, distinctly masculine and utterly compelling. "You fought for me. Against your whole hospital."

"Anyone would have—"

"No." His certainty is absolute, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my heart race. "They wouldn't. I've spent my life being treated like something less than human. I know the difference."

Heat floods my face, uncomfortable awareness spreading through my body. He's too close. Too perceptive. Too much. My doctor's objectivity crumbles beneath his gaze, replaced by something far more personal, more dangerous.

"I should finish getting the clinic ready," I say, stepping back, needing distance. "Patients might come."

But he doesn't move, amber eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "Why'd you really help me that night?"

"Because it was right." The truth is simple, unvarnished.

His hand, massive and newly stitched, reaches toward my face. My breath catches as his rough fingertips hover near my cheek, a whisper away from contact.

The doctor in me knows this is inappropriate—he's my patient, I'm his physician. There are ethical boundaries for good reason. Years of medical training and professional standards scream in my head to step back, to reestablish proper distance. But another part of me, the woman who's been going through the motions for months, who's been numb since Jamie died, leans almost imperceptibly closer to his touch.

Then he hesitates, his expression shifting through emotions too complex to name, and his hand drops. The aborted gesture sends an electric current through me, unwanted awareness sharpening to painful clarity.

"You believe that." Wonder colors his voice, as if I've said something extraordinary instead of stating the obvious. "You actually fucking believe that."

He studies my face, his expression shifting to something more perceptive.. "That's why it's eating you alive about that patient, isn't it? Because you believe doing right isn't optional—it's who you are."

I freeze, stunned by the accuracy of his assessment. He's cut straight to the core of me, laid bare the truth I've been running from—that I judge myself by an impossible standard, that perfectionism isn't just my goal but my identity.

"Whatever happened to that woman," he continues, voice rough with certainty, "there's no way in hell it was from neglect. Not from someone who'd fight an entire hospital to treat an orc she didn't even know."

My throat tightens, the truth of his words penetrating defenses I've maintained for months. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

For a moment, something dangerous and electric builds between us—a recognition, a possibility. His eyes drop to my mouth, pupils dilating slightly, and my heart stutters in my chest. I find myself leaning toward him, drawn by some force I can't name.

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