Page 48 of Dr. Roz Harrington
“Cap?”
The voice startled her. Sam turned to find Jack Mitchell leaning against the kitchen doorway, his eyes shadowed and sharp. He was nursing a half-empty mug of coffee, his uniform shirt rumpled and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked like he’d been waiting.
“Didn’t expect you back tonight,” Jack said casually, but there was an edge to his tone, something wary. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Sam said, the word coming out too quickly, too sharp.
Jack didn’t move, didn’t even blink, and that was exactly why Sam didn’t want to see him right now. Jack knew her better than most. He had a knack for reading people and breaking through their walls, and Sam didn’t trust herself not to crumble if he pushed.
“Fine, huh?” Jack echoed, the skepticism obvious as he took a sip of his coffee. “You stormed in here like you were chasing a five-alarm fire.”
“Jack,” Sam said, her voice low and warning.
“What?” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his gaze didn’t waver. “I’m just saying, Cap, you look like you’re ready to punch something. If you want to talk about it?—”
“I don’t,” Sam snapped.
The words were harsher than she intended, and she regretted them immediately when she saw the flicker of surprise in Jack’s expression. He covered it quickly, though, his features settling into something unreadable.
“Okay,” Jack said, his voice quieter now. “You don’t.”
Sam swallowed, looking away as she ran a hand through her hair, her pulse thrumming under her skin. She wanted to apologize, but the words stuck in her throat, tangled up with everything else she wasn’t ready to face.
“I’m fine,” she muttered again, more to herself than to him.
Jack watched her for another beat, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t push. “All right,” he said finally, stepping back into the kitchen. “Try to get some sleep, Cap. You’re no good to the rest of us if you burn yourself out.”
Sam didn’t answer. She turned on her heel and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time, as if she could outrun the storm in her head.
The bunk room was dark and silent when she entered, the rhythmic breathing of her crew the only sound. Sam moved quietly to her locker, stripping off her jacket and boots with practiced efficiency. She sat heavily on the edge of her bunk, elbows braced on her knees, hands hanging loosely between them.
The exhaustion was starting to set in now, dragging at her limbs, but her mind wouldn’t stop. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Roz’s face—not the woman she kissed, not the woman who whispered her name like it meant everything, but the woman who told her to leave.
“Just go. I’ll handle this.”
The words felt like a slap. Sam knew Roz’s walls better than anyone—how quickly she could shut down, how fiercely she guarded herself—but tonight had been different. Evelyn had caught them in a moment that was theirs, a rare crack in Roz’s impenetrable façade, and Roz had slammed the door shut on Sam like it had never happened.
Sam rubbed her hands over her face, her breaths shaky and uneven. She shouldn’t be this hurt. She shouldn’t feel so abandoned, so raw. But she did.
“Dammit, Roz,” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling with frustration.
She sat like that for a long time, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor without really seeing it. Eventually, the silence became unbearable. She stood abruptly, grabbed her jacket, and slipped back out of the bunk room.
Sam found herself in the gym, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as she pulled on her gloves and moved toward the heavy bag. She didn’t care enough to bother wrapping her hands. The first punch was sloppy, too wide, but the impact sent a jolt up her arm that she welcomed. She swung again, harder this time, and then again until her fists were pounding the bag with every ounce of anger and frustration she couldn’t hold in anymore.
Why didn’t you fight for me?
Why did you let her win?
Why do I care this much?
The questions circled endlessly in her mind as she hit the bag over and over, sweat rolling down her back, her breaths comingfast and hard. Her knuckles ached, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.
“Cap.”
The voice cut through the haze, sharp and stern. Sam froze mid-swing, her chest heaving as she turned to see Jack standing in the doorway, his arms crossed.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his tone a mix of frustration and concern. “It’s almost three in the morning.”
