Page 73 of Doctor's Bossy Match
I glance back at the ward once more, then jog to catch up.
Inside the theater, the tension settles around me.I expect to be standing by the back, but as I pause by the wall, Dr.Sullivan speaks.“Harrison asked you to be next to the monitors.So you can see everything.”
I move into place and try to stop my hands from shaking, knowing I’m going to want to remember all of this.
It doesn’t click until I hear them confirming the diagnosis out loud, atrioventricular canal defect, severe and complete.The plan is clear: close the septal defect, separate the mitral and tricuspid valves, and reconstruct as needed.
They begin to prep the patient, and a nurse points me where to stand so that I get a better view.
The boy is about six months old.Pale, fragile, and so small under all the wires and monitors.
And then it hits me.The same condition Brant had as a child.
No wonder he was shaking.
I stay seated the entire time.The hours crawl by… four, then five.Nurses swap out.The anaesthesiologist checks the monitors again and again.Dr.Sullivan and his assistant don't falter.They’re in the zone.The focus he has on the patient and the skilled ease in his movements make me confident the child is in safe hands.
By the end, the child is finally transferred to recovery.I thank Dr.Sullivan as he starts peeling off his gloves.I did feel like I’ve been holding my breath the entire time.Before heading back to find Brant, I pass by recovery, checking on the little boy, who is stable, breathing better.His tiny chest rising and falling under the oxygen hood.He looks...okay.This fragile child is why I want to work in pediatrics.Watching the mother’s face look less panicked and more tired is a relief.
I make my way to the office.The second I step inside, I can’t sit, so I pace, waiting for him.He won’t be far away; he’s probably just with another case.Something about this case got to him badly, and I know it’s the same heart condition he had as a child, but surely, he’s seen it in his time here?
He walks into the office, breaking up my wandering thoughts.He’s somehow still flawless, like nothing happened, except the knot at his throat is tighter than ever.
I stop pacing and freeze mid-step, watching him lower his head.
Something in me reacts before I even think.I step forward, gently reaching out.My fingers graze his bicep through the sleeve of his suit, and I feel the muscle twitch beneath my touch.
He doesn’t speak.
He just stares at my hand on his arm, like it’s confusing him or steadying him.I don’t know.
Then, quietly, he says, “He was the same age I was.When I had the surgery.”
My breath hitches.
“I’ve never had to deal with a case that close to home before,” he says.“A little boy.Same age.Same symptoms.Same scar waiting for him.”
He doesn’t need to say the rest.It was triggering.He just… couldn’t say it out loud.It all makes sense now.It’s not about the surgery he had as a child.It’s about living with it.About seeing that little boy wake up and knowing exactly what kind of future he’s facing.The check-ups, the anxiety, knowing your body has failed once and could do it again.
I lift my other hand and place it on his opposite arm, steadying both of us.
He drags his head up and meets my gaze.His eyes are wide and lost, and the power I usually see in him is gone.
He looks like a scared kid, and my chest tightens painfully.I want to protect him and shake him and hold him all at once.
My breathing shortens into shallow, uneven pants.
God,thisversion of him breaks me.And I want the other version back.I want the sharp-tongued, bossy, impossible-to-read doctor.Because seeing him like this makes my heart ache.
I shouldn’t ask the question.I know I shouldn’t.But I do it anyway.
“Why did you want me in there?”
He hesitates.Then mutters, almost like it’s hard for him to admit.
“As annoying as you can be”—his mouth quirks, barely— “I wanted you to understand me better.”
He finally lifts a hand and runs it through his hair, frustrated.
