Night Rounds

The third floor of St. Catherine's Memorial was quiet at 3 AM, the kind of quiet that only exists in hospitals during the dead of night, when the fluorescent lights hum louder than the patients' breathing monitors and the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum carries for miles.

I'd been working the night shift for three years now. Most nurses hated it, the loneliness, the disrupted sleep, the way it played havoc with your social life. But I preferred it. Fewer visitors, fewer administrators, fewer people watching your every move. Just you and the patients and the steady rhythm of vital signs.

My name is Naomi Chen. I'm thirty-two, five foot four, and perpetually exhausted. I have a studio apartment in Koreatown, two cats named after antibiotics (Cipro and Amoxie), and absolutely zero dating life because who has time for that when you're unconscious all day?

What I didn't have, until six weeks ago, was a reason to look forward to coming to work.

Dr. Rebecca Torres had transferred from Mount Sinai in January. She was a hospitalist, which meant she handled the general medicine cases, the bread and butter of overnight admissions. She was also, without question, the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in scrubs.

Dark curly hair that she always wore twisted up in a clip. Brown skin that seemed to glow even under the unflattering hospital lights. A smile that could make a patient's blood pressure spike in ways that weren't strictly medical.

Not that I was paying attention.

Fine. I was absolutely paying attention.

* * *

February 14th - 11:47 PM

Valentine's Day. The universe has a sense of humor.

I was restocking the supply closet when Dr. Torres found me, which was fitting because I'd been hiding from her for the better part of three weeks. Ever since the incident.

The incident being: I'd walked in on her changing in the break room. She'd been standing there in a sports bra and scrub pants, and I'd stared for approximately two seconds too long before stammering an apology and fleeing.

Two seconds doesn't sound like much, but when you're staring at your coworker's perfect shoulders and flat stomach and the curve of her waist, two seconds is enough to broadcast your feelings to anyone with eyes.

Including her.

"Naomi."

I nearly dropped the box of IV catheters I was holding. "Dr. Torres. Hi. I was just, supplies. Restocking. Important work."

She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that slight smile playing at her lips. The one that made me feel like she knew exactly what I was thinking.

"You've been avoiding me."

"What? No. I've been busy. Lots of patients. You know how it is."

"We've worked five of the same shifts. You've managed to communicate exclusively through the nursing station intercom."

"Efficient communication is important in healthcare settings."

She laughed. It was a warm sound, rich and genuine, and it did things to my stomach that had nothing to do with the vending machine burrito I'd eaten at dinner.

"Can we talk? Somewhere that isn't a supply closet?"

I looked around at the shelves of gauze and tubing and realized I was essentially cornered. "I'm on duty."

"Break in twenty minutes. I'll meet you on the roof."

She was gone before I could refuse.

* * *

The roof of St. Catherine's wasn't technically accessible to staff, but everyone knew the maintenance door didn't lock properly if you jiggled the handle just right. It was where nurses came to cry after losing patients, where residents came to stare at the stars and question their life choices, where I came to smoke the occasional stress cigarette I pretended not to have.

Dr. Torres, Rebecca, I needed to start thinking of her as Rebecca if we were going to have some kind of confrontation, was already there when I pushed through the door. She was standing at the edge, looking out over the city, her white coat billowing slightly in the February wind.

She looked like something out of a movie. A medical drama where the hot doctor had a dramatic rooftop scene before realizing her true feelings.

Get it together, Naomi.

"You wanted to talk."

She turned to face me. In the moonlight, her features were softer, less clinical. She looked tired. We all looked tired, it came with the territory, but on her it looked like vulnerability.

"I want to know why you're avoiding me. And I want the real answer, not the efficient communication bullshit."

"I told you, "

"You walked in on me half-dressed and now you can barely look at me. Either I've made you deeply uncomfortable, in which case I need to know so I can fix it, or..." She paused. "Or you're avoiding me for a different reason."

The wind cut through my scrubs, and I shivered. I could lie. I was good at lying to myself; lying to her should be easy.

It wasn't.

"You didn't make me uncomfortable."

"Then what?"

"You're my attending. It would be inappropriate."

"I'm a hospitalist. I don't supervise you. We're colleagues, not superior and subordinate."

"People would talk."

"Since when do you care what people say? You once told Dr. Patterson that his bedside manner was 'actively harmful to patient outcomes' in front of three residents."

I'd forgotten she'd heard that. "It was true."

"It was amazing." She stepped closer. "Naomi. I'm asking you directly. Do you have feelings for me?"

The question hung in the cold air between us. Behind her, the city glittered, a million windows, a million lives, none of them as terrifying as this moment.

"Yes."