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."

The word came out smaller than I intended.

"Good."

She closed the distance between us and kissed me.

Her lips were cold from the February air, but her mouth was warm, and she tasted like the terrible hospital coffee we all drank to survive. Her hands came up to cup my face, and I grabbed the lapels of her white coat because I needed something to hold onto or I was going to float away.

When she pulled back, we were both breathing hard.

"I... what?"

Eloquent. Very eloquent, Naomi.

"I've been trying to get your attention for six weeks. The break room thing wasn't an accident. I heard you coming."

"You—what?"

"You're not very observant for someone who notices when a patient's respiratory rate changes by two breaths per minute."

"That's different. That's clinical."

"So you noticed me clinically?"

"I noticed you very non-clinically. That was the problem."

She laughed again, and this time I was close enough to feel it vibrate through her chest. Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me against her, and I let myself sink into the embrace.

"Our break's almost over."

"I know."

"Come home with me after shift."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway.

"Yes."

* * *

February 15th - 7:23 AM

Rebecca's apartment was a fifteen-minute drive from the hospital, in a brownstone building with a doorman and an elevator that actually worked. I was too tired to be nervous—we'd been running on fumes since 3 AM, when a multi-car accident brought in four traumas and turned our quiet night into controlled chaos.

But as we stepped into her apartment, exhaustion warred with anticipation, and anticipation won.

She pressed me against the door before it even closed.

"I've been thinking about this all night."

"We were intubating someone at 4 AM."

"I can multitask."

She kissed me again, hungrier this time, and her hands were already untucking my scrub top, sliding underneath to find bare skin. I gasped at the contact—her fingers were still cold from outside—and she smiled against my mouth.

"Sorry. Cold hands."

"Warm them up then."

She did. She pressed her palms flat against my stomach, then slowly dragged them up my ribs, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. When she reached my bra, she

paused.

"Okay?"

"Very okay."

The scrub top came off. Then my bra. Then hers, because I wasn't about to let her have all the control, and I'd been thinking about those shoulders since the break room incident.

She was beautiful. More beautiful than I'd imagined, and I'd imagined quite a lot. Her skin was warm and smooth, her breasts full and perfect, her nipples already hard before I even touched them.

"Bedroom?"

"Can't wait that long."

We ended up on her couch, which was leather and probably cost more than my monthly rent. She pushed me down onto it and straddled my lap, her hips rolling against mine in a rhythm that made my brain short-circuit.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

"Six weeks?"

"Since my first night shift. You were explaining a medication interaction to Dr. Patterson like he was a particularly slow child, and I thought, 'That's her. That's the one.'"

I laughed, but it turned into a moan as her hand slipped between us, fingers finding the waistband of my scrub pants.

"Can I?"

"Please."

She slid her hand into my pants, under my underwear, and—

"God, you're wet."

"I've been wet since the roof."

Her fingers found my clit, circling slowly, and I arched into her touch. After three years of night shifts and no dating life, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be touched by someone else. By someone who looked at me like I was something precious.

"Inside. I need you inside."

She obliged, sliding two fingers into me, and I moaned loud enough that her neighbors probably heard. I couldn't bring myself to care. Not when she was moving inside me like she'd studied my anatomy, which—she was a doctor, she probably had—not like this.

"You're so tight. So beautiful. I've thought about this every night, lying in my bed, touching myself, thinking about you—"

"Rebecca—"

"—thinking about what sounds you'd make, whether you'd be quiet or loud—"

"Loud. I'm going to be loud—"

"Good. I want to hear you."

She curled her fingers and pressed her thumb against my clit, and I came apart. The orgasm tore through me, wave after wave, and I cried out her name like a prayer, my fingers digging into her shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

When I came back to myself, she was watching me with an expression of pure satisfaction.

"Beautiful."

"Your turn."

I flipped us, using muscles I'd developed from moving patients for three years. She landed on her back with a surprised laugh, and I settled between her thighs, pulling off her scrub pants and underwear in one motion.

She was gorgeous. Dark curls between her legs, glistening with arousal. I spread her open with my thumbs and just looked.

"Naomi..."

"Let me enjoy this."

"We've been awake for twenty-four hours."

"Then we'll sleep after."

I lowered my mouth to her and tasted her for the first time. She moaned, her hips lifting off the couch, her hand finding the back of my head. I took my time, learning her—what pressure made her gasp, what rhythm made her tremble, what angle made her whimper my name.

"There... don't stop... please don't stop..."

I didn't stop. I worked her with my tongue while sliding two fingers inside her, matching the rhythm she'd set with her rolling hips. Her thighs clamped around my ears, and her whole body tensed.

"I'm going to—Naomi, I'm—"

She came with a cry, pulsing around my fingers, her taste flooding my mouth. I worked her through it, gentling my touch as the waves subsided, until she was boneless and panting.

"Beautiful," I echoed back at her.

She laughed weakly. "Bed. Now. Before I fall asleep on this couch."

* * *

We made it to her bedroom—barely. Her bed was enormous, soft, and covered in pillows that probably cost more than my entire furniture set. We collapsed onto it in a tangle of limbs, exhaustion finally catching up.

"This isn't just tonight, is it?"

Her voice was sleepy, muffled against my shoulder.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... I don't want this to be a one-time thing. A Valentine's Day mistake we never talk about."

I shifted to look at her. In the gray morning light filtering through her curtains, she looked younger. Vulnerable. Like she was actually afraid of my answer.

"Rebecca."

"Yeah?"

"I've been avoiding you for three weeks because I was terrified of exactly this conversation. Because I knew if I got close to you, I wouldn't be able to stay away. This isn't a mistake. This isn't one night. This is... I want everything. I

f you'll give it to me."

She kissed me, soft and slow, tasting like sleep and sex and something that felt like the beginning of forever.

"Everything sounds good."

* * *

Three Months Later

The third floor of St. Catherine's was quiet at 3 AM—but these days, I didn't mind the quiet so much.

Rebecca found me at the nursing station, charting notes on a patient we'd admitted earlier that night. She set a cup of terrible hospital coffee in front of me and perched on the desk.

"Mr. Henderson's labs came back. Kidney function's improving."

"Good. His daughter was worried."

"You talked to her for an hour. She's not worried anymore."

I shrugged. "That's the job."

"It's more than the job. It's why you're good at it."

She leaned down to kiss me—quick, professional, just a brush of lips that no one would notice. But I felt it everywhere.

"Break in twenty minutes?"

"Roof?"

"It's cold."

"I'll warm you up."

I smiled. "It's a date."

She walked away, white coat swishing, and I watched her go. Three months, and she still made my heart rate spike in ways that weren't strictly medical.

The night shift wasn't so lonely anymore.

* * *

That Night - 4 AM

The roof was cold, but Rebecca was warm, her arms wrapped around me from behind as we looked out over the city.

"Move in with me."

I turned in her arms. "What?"

"Your lease is up next month. My apartment is closer to the hospital. We're together every night anyway. Move in with me."

"We've only been dating three months."

"And I've been in love with you for four. What's your point?"

In love. She said it so casually, like it wasn't the first time either of us had used those words.

"You love me?"

"Is that really a surprise?"

I thought about the past three months. The way she brought me coffee without being asked. The way she remembered that I took my eggs scrambled, not fried. The way she'd reorganized her call schedule to match mine. The way she looked at me every time I walked into a room.

"No. I guess it isn't."

"So?"

"So... I love you too."

She smiled—that smile, the one that had undone me from the very beginning.

"And the moving in part?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes. I'll move in with you. I'll bring my cats, and my terrible furniture, and my complete inability to cook anything that doesn't come from a microwave—"

She kissed me before I could finish, hard and joyful, and I laughed against her mouth.

Below us, the city was waking up. Somewhere in the hospital, monitors were beeping and patients were stirring and another shift was beginning. But up here, in the cold February air, with the woman I loved in my arms, everything else could wait.

This was where I was supposed to be. This was who I was supposed to be with. And I wouldn't trade a single sleepless night for the world.