Felix:

The light above the operating table is too bright and unkind to the headache I'm nursing, courtesy of last night's whiskey.

There is a man in front of me with his chest open and that is all that matters at this moment. He came in with a gunshot wound and at the brink of death and now the weight of responsibility falls on me and my team's hands to save his life.

I'd met his family briefly before we came in. He's got a wife and a son waiting for him to survive this.

I feel a pang behind my own chest at the memory of my own father. His loss is a wound that refuses to heal. He was my guiding star. And he left me and my mom so quietly one morning that I still have difficulty accepting it despite it being 2 years since his death.

I force my attention to the person losing his life in my hands and everything else fades away. My pain, my loss, my grief.

All that remains is the responsibility and the skill in my hand that took years to hone to perfection.

The bullet had just grazed his heart and his chest cavity was full of blood. I had already removed the bullet and all that remains is the final steps to close the bleeder. My first assistant, Jonathan, a junior fellow, is sweating. I can feel it even without looking up.

He is always a nervous wreck whenever there's a major surgery, but that never hinders his ability to perform under intense pressure, no matter how sweaty he gets. That's why he's been my first assistant for 3 years.

My focus shifts to the vitals of the patient, stable. The bleeding has stopped and all that is left is the closure part and I know Jonathan is capable of doing so, but I just stay long enough, moving away from the table, giving him the chance to close up, to go see the patient's family.

Telling them the good news that he'll live and the expression of gratitude on their faces like I'm some God send, is almost too heavy for me.

I tell them he will be shifted to CCU for the next 24 hours, but he will be alright and go to my office on the 15th floor where the executive offices are.

Before I can step in, my assistant, Ana stops me, "Dr. Ashbourne"

"Ana," I greet her, "and how many times do I have to tell you, I'm Felix to you, Dr. Ashbourne was my father."

She doesn't respond to that, reminding me about the orientation meeting going on this second. "Your mother asked me to remind you that you have to attend the meeting" I'm about to refuse when she adds, "She also said you might try to get out of it but as the future heir and director of the hospital you have to and your dad would have wanted you to, and I quote" she ends with a sympathetic look in her eyes.

She knows I can't refuse when she uses my dad's name like that. "Mother is not coming slow, is she?"

I reluctantly turn around. I hadn't changed out of my scrubs, hoping to get a shower in my officer suite.

"At least change out of those scrubs first. She'll be angry." She calls after me.

"Well, it was her idea to use the big guns, so she'll have to be okay with the dress code," I say over my shoulder and go towards the elevator.

The last thing I want to do right now is sit through a whole session of baby residents staring at everything in awe like a child visiting the zoo for the first time. The exhaustion from a hangover and long surgery this morning has definitely dampened the mood.

But my mom would be disappointed if I didn't go and that is the last thing I want.

After dad, she's the only family I have, and I don't want to put too much on her plate when she's already been doing so much. Since dad died, she took over as the hospital director, and she has managed it as well as my dad did despite grieving herself from losing the love of her life.

The elevator door opens to the 12th floor where the ceremony is happening. It's the academic block. I cross the library and a small cafeteria for doctors and medical students on this floor, along with several classrooms to enter the hall.

It's already packed to the brim, with faculty and senior fellows in the front row along with several department heads. My mom gives me the look and I shrug unbothered due to exhaustion and the weight of everyone's expectation and envy heavy on my shoulders.

I walk towards my seat when I feel like someone is staring, but that is nothing new. I have been gawked at, especially by newly inducted residents for as long as I have been a doctor, some with admiration, others with envy.

This feels different. I look up, scanning the faces and that's when i see her.

Soft features: dark brown hair tied neatly, face free of any makeup and eyes the color of forest after rain.

I stop breathing for a second. She is beautiful, not the most beautiful woman I have seen, but the kind that doesn't need any layers to shine. Her beauty has this pull to her.

And her eyes, they could take you hostage and I forget for a second I'm surrounded by so many people.

Taking back control over my thoughts, I take the seat.

It takes immense restraint for me to not turn back and steal another glance.

This has never happened to me. I have always been surrounded by beautiful women. Some were attracted to my name and status, others to my looks. There was never a shortage. But something about her pulled at me in a single glance.

I've spent years mastering control. But under the light, with her eyes on me, I felt it slipping.

Anya:

Everything around me fades away.

All I can focus on is the man in scrubs, no, scratch that... the Greek god in scrubs.

I've seen plenty of attractive men at college, rotations, even conferences, but no one has ever set my whole body on fire like he just did.

Oh my God. I really need to stop my wayward thoughts. Five minutes ago, I was thinking about his mother and how stunning she is and how I might have a professional crush on her. Not that kind of crush, okay? It's not the same.

I force myself to breathe.

I've worked too hard to be here; I can't ruin this with some ridiculous crush. If he ever found out, he could fire me on the spot. He has the power, after all, this is his world, and I'm just the new resident standing in it.

I'm so distracted I don't even realize the director has stopped talking until she calls on Dr. Felix to address us.

My pulse spikes again. My face burns; I'm probably pinker than I'd like to admit. I blink too fast and bite the inside of my cheek, anything to calm my racing heart.

Zara elbows me and whispers, "Isn't he a sight for sore eyes? You're drooling next to me."

I can't answer. I don't even try to look at him again, but I can't not hear him when he starts to speak.

And when he does, I want to scream like some unhinged groupie at a concert.

Something is definitely wrong with me.

Stop it, Anya. You'll embarrass yourself if your ovaries explode right here, I scold myself silently.

His voice is deep, smooth, and steady, the kind of voice that knows exactly who it belongs to.

He and I live in different worlds, and the thought is enough to douse the hormones currently rioting in mine. I'm worse than a teenager.

This isn't a Taylor Swift song, and no matter how much it feels like the awkward nerd meeting the star quarterback, but he does not belong with me.

It's good, actually. I'll need that reminder next time I see him walking the same corridors. He's my senior attending, might be my supervisor, and I have to remember respect not how his voice somehow soothed an old ache I didn't know still existed.

Like his mother and every other speaker, he doesn't talk long. When he finishes, I'm equal parts relieved and disappointed.

The crowd begins to scatter. As our program's assessment in-charge, he asks us to collect our assigned rotas and follow the chief resident of each specialty for a tour of the hospital.

Thank God he won't be in the same group as me.

Zara and I are both placed in the core-surgical program along with twelve others.

Our chief resident is a woman named Kelly Montgomery, not much older than me, tall, with an air of authority, dark glowing skin, the most beautiful shade of curly brown hair, and eyes to match. For a second I'm confused.

Are all the doctors in this hospital this gorgeous?

I feel like I'm living inside an episode of Grey's Anatomy, except I'm no legacy and my mother isn't a doctor. No one in my family ever has been. I need to pinch myself, wake up, and concentrate.

I glance at my rota. One look and I already know how this intern year is going to go. We'll be working thirty-six- to forty-hour shifts twice a week, and I'm on call for thirty-six straight tomorrow.

Well, congratulations, Anya, I mock myself and snicker quietly.

Zara notices and gives me a questioning look. I mouth nothing as we slip out the back door of the hall.

The tour lasts an hour and a half. The hospital is a maze. I'm probably going to get lost on my way to, well, anywhere.

Walking those corridors, illuminated by white fluorescent lights, smelling of bleach and disinfectant, watching the mix of hope and despair on patients' families' faces, it's overwhelming.

But my resolve doesn't waver for a second.

Life is like that: happiness and sadness, hope and despair, sickness and health, all come in pairs.

So I vow to myself again: I'll give it everything I have, because I'm not a quitter. This is what I was meant to do. I believe in it.. in myself.

All thoughts of the sexy sin in scrubs fade from my mind... until the day is about to end.

Zara wears the same expression I do, equal parts awe and resolve, laced with the weight of new responsibility.

She asks where I'm living, snapping me out of my internal monologue. I tell her about my situation, and just as quickly as she took the seat next to me this morning, she offers to be my roommate.

She hasn't found a decent apartment near the hospital and is renting a room at a motel.

Well, that's settled sooner than I expected.

We decide to move her in tonight, because starting at 5 a.m. tomorrow we begin our first thirty-six-hour shift.

Zara and I will be on call for the ward patients, supervised by a fourth-year resident named Luke Wilson.

After the tour ends and the paperwork is finished, we climb into her beat-up Camaro and drive to the motel to collect her things. Moving is harder than expected, most of her furniture won't arrive until next weekend but by eight we're done.

The evening is spent in easy chatter and laughter, from where we grew up to favourite comfort food and everything in between.

We go to bed early, waiting for the next day with that good kind of nervous excitement.

Anya

The alarm blared at 4 a.m., jerking Zara and me awake. I wanted to throw it out of the window, and Zara groaned into her pillow, falling back on it.

We shot out of bed, half-asleep, bumping into each other and sprinting around like there's a zombie apocalypse outside the door.

Neither of us spoke until the smell of coffee filled the room. We both knew that if caffeine didn't enter our system in the next five minutes, someone was going to die, and it wouldn't be from natural causes.

By 4:55 a.m. we're at the hospital, running purely on coffee and the protein bars Zara brought.

God bless her; I get impossibly grumpy on an empty stomach.

When we reach the ward, a tall guy, maybe five-ten, light skin, blond hair, hazel eyes, glasses, waits for us. Good-looking in a Clark Kent–if-he-were-two-inches-shorter kind of way. He introduces himself as Dr. Luke Wilson, one of the fourth-year residents.

Unlike Dr. Montgomery, he's easygoing, cracks jokes before we've even had our ID badges scanned, and walks us through what we'll be doing all day.

"Welcome to your first day, rookies," he said, smiling a little too brightly for someone who'd clearly been awake longer than us. "You've got twenty patients, two brains, and no clue what's coming. Let's fix that."

Labs.

Charts.

Vitals.

Presentations.

"And your supervising attending," he continued, "is Dr. Ethan Calloway. Brilliant. Zero tolerance for bullshit. Doesn't do small talk. Don't be late, don't be sloppy, and if you survive your first month, you might even start to like him."

I nodded again, pretending to be calm, but internally, I was panicking. And just when I thought I couldn't feel more pressure, he added, "Your evaluations go to Dr. Calloway weekly and to Dr. Ashbourne every two weeks."

That was it. My brain short-circuited.

The second I heard that name, I slammed every mental door I had, locked them, and threw the keys into the nearest sea. Nope. Not today.

Sexy Sin in Scrubs was not allowed to exist inside my thoughts during working hours. I had a professional reputation to build or at least the illusion of one.

"Perform well," he says, "and you'll live to tell the tale."

Zara, who is braver than me, asks when we'll get to assist in the OR.

Dr. Wilson laughs. "Not the first month. Maybe by the third rotation, second if you're prodigies."

We groan but nod. Start at zero, climb up. Fair enough.

The first hour passed in a blur. Zara and I trailed after Dr. Wilson as he moved from room to room, introducing us to patients, explaining what to watch for, and throwing little tests our way. I liked him; he was kind in that quietly confident way some senior doctors are, the ones who correct your mistakes without crushing your soul.

By 7 a.m. the ward had transformed from calm to chaos. White coats, scrubs, coffee cups, pagers, people rushing in every direction. Elevator doors kept spilling out doctors like a clown car. And then someone new steps out.

Tall. Dark hair. Commanding energy.

No butterflies, no short circuiting of my nervous system, so definitely not him.

Still, there's something magnetic about this man. I had a feeling that I wanted to impress him.

Without anyone telling me, I knew it was Dr. Ethan Calloway.

He's talking to another fellow, the team forming behind them, third and fourth year residents, a couple of second years, all efficient, all intimidatingly calm. Rounds begin.

He starts in Room 1, asking rapid fire questions. By Room 3 his gaze lands on me.

"So, Dr. Briar," he said, voice low, steady, professional, "what's your differential?"

My heart did that stupid double jump again. My brain froze for half a second, then sputtered back to life.

"Glioma," I said quickly, and then, more confidently, "Possible meningioma, based on MRI frontal lobe involvement that would explain the patient's motor deficit and recent mood swings."

A small nod. Approval. Then he said,

"Good. Always match the scan with symptoms."

Then he turns to Zara. "How would you prep the patient for surgery?"

She nails it. He gives us both a quick, almost imperceptible smile before moving on.

For the rest of the rounds he didn't question me again, but I caught his eyes flick toward me once or twice, not unfriendly. I could've sworn there was the faintest spark of curiosity there. I pretended to ignore it and discreetly wiped my face in case I had coffee foam somewhere.

By the time I remembered to breathe, rounds are over. My pulse is still racing, but for once it's from adrenaline, not embarrassment.

The next few hours passed in fragments, vitals, chart updates, patients, more charts, quick sips of cold coffee, and the faint buzz of hospital life all around us. Dr. Wilson kept us moving with sarcastic one-liners.

"Smile, it confuses the consultants."

"Write legibly, it's your one shot at redemption."

By noon, my body had decided it no longer wanted to be a body. I was running purely on caffeine and fear. Then came a trauma page. The sound made the hallway still for half a breath before the staff sprinted toward the bay. Dr. Wilson told us to stay back, it wasn't our level yet, but curiosity got the better of us. Zara and I crept toward the glass doors and peeked through.

Inside the trauma bay, chaos ruled, monitors beeping, nurses shouting vitals, instruments clattering. And right in the middle of it, Dr. Calloway.

Steady hands. Calm voice. Everyone moving to his rhythm like he was conducting a symphony made of blood and panic.

For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

That was what mastery looked like. Not arrogance. Not ego. Just control.

The hours blurred again. I blinked, and somehow it was midnight. My feet ached, my shoulders felt like I'd been carrying bricks, and my stomach was making sounds I didn't know were humanly possible. Zara had passed out on a pile of charts. I was still updating vitals when a voice behind me said,

"Still standing?"

I turned to find Dr. Calloway leaning against the doorframe, amusement in his eyes.

"Barely," I said, smiling despite my exhaustion. "Coffee and fear. It's a balanced diet."

He chuckled, low, genuine. "You'll fit right in."

And just like that, he was gone.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the empty doorway like an idiot, replaying the sound of his laugh in my head. It wasn't like Felix's polished charm or the way he always seemed to know the effect he had on people. This was different. Simple. Human.

By 2 a.m., Zara and I were finally in the residents' lounge, the hum of vending machines filling the silence. She mumbled something about quitting medicine and immediately fell asleep on the couch. I sat there staring at my stained scrubs, aching feet, and messy handwriting on the chart in my lap. My eyes burned, my body screamed, and my brain buzzed with everything I had learned in the last twenty hours.

And yet... I felt something else too. Pride.

This was my first day, my first thirty-six-hour shift, my first tiny victory in a mountain of challenges waiting ahead. I survived it. I didn't faint, I didn't cry in the bathroom, and I didn't get fired.

I was exhausted, starving, and delirious, but I was alive.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.