Page 104 of The Clinch
Not the drama. The normal.
By five-twenty,my body is done.
My shift ended at five, but I’m slow to leave. Someone always needs something—one last chart, one last set of vitals, one last reassurance—and it gives me permission to stay a few minutes longer.
My last month here is almost gone. Every shift is one step closer to med school. I’ll miss the pace, the adrenaline, the brutal simplicity of knowing how to stop other people’s pain, and I make a quiet promise to myself that I’ll come back, someday, in a different capacity.
Marco catches me at the lockers as I’m shoving my phone into my pocket.
“Walk you out?” He hooks his arm under mine. “Is your fiancé waiting at the curb like the world’s most expensive Uber?”
“Likely,” I mutter.
Marco makes a satisfied sound. “Liz. Baby. Consistency. Structure. A man who knows where you are. I’m obsessed.”
Outside, the air is thick and hot, the city too bright after ten hours under fluorescent lights.
Leo is at the curb with his arms folded, watching the entrance. He takes me in first, then clocks Marco.
Marco stops dead. “Holy shit,” he whispers.
I elbow him. “Behave.”
He doesn’t. He steps forward and sticks out his hand. “Marco. Charge nurse. Congratulations on your engagement.”
Leo takes the handshake, firm and brief, his mouth twitching. “Leo.”
“Lionheart,” Marco says, reverent for half a second, then wicked. He looks Leo over. “God. You’re hotter in person. I’m furious about it.”
“Marco,” I hiss.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, unapologetic. Then, bright-eyed, “Also, I’m single. Emotionally available. Excellent with my hands. I literally tend wounds for a living.”
Leo pauses like he’s deciding whether to be offended. Then, deadpan, “Good to know.”
Marco leans in. “So… any single friends? Big ones. Preferably good cardio, low commitment issues.”
Leo’s expression doesn’t change. “Let me ask around.”
Marco beams like he just got accepted into a program. I point down the sidewalk. “Go home, Marco.”
“See you tomorrow, Liz. And Lionheart, please use protection. She has big plans.”
“Leave,” I snap.
Marco salutes and disappears down the block, still cackling.
Leo reaches for my bag without asking. I let him take it, which tells me more than I want to know.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I’m exhausted.”
He guides me toward the car, steady presence at my back.
My phone buzzes.
A push notification from some sports account I don’t follow, but the algorithm knows my name now.
