💬 Excerpt 1 – Reputation, Rumors, and a Surprising Truth
“Look, I’m not an idiot. I know what people say. Hell, you brought it up in my deposition. I won’t lie—there’s a reason I’ve had my fair share of…experiences. Not exclusively in stairwells, for fuck’s sake, though they’re awfully convenient when you fucking live at the hospital. Definitely not in the way you’re thinking.”

“What do you mean?” Her brow furrows slightly.

I glance around the restaurant, feeling an unfamiliar wave of nerves tense in my chest. I don’t usually get anxious. Not in surgery and sure as hell not when talking to women. With her?
This is uncharted territory.

“It means,” I say carefully, “if you did your homework you’d know I never actually fucked anyone in said stairwells. Let me blow your mind. Technically, I’m still a virgin.”

Marcella’s lips part with shock. She says nothing. Stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“You can pick your jaw up off the floor.” I fight the urge to smirk.

She blinks, shaking her head slightly. “I’m sorry. I find it difficult to believe with your reputation—”

“A reputation I’ve never bothered to correct because my sex life is no one’s business unless I choose to share it.” I narrow my eyes.

She studies me and there’s a palpable shift in her demeanor—curiosity laced with desire?

“Why do you do it then?”

“I got into medicine because my family has a history of alcoholism.” I gesture to my untouched wine. “I wanted to understand why some brains are wired toward addiction.”

Marcella moves the glass away. “I’m sorry for being presumptuous about the wine. Let’s order something else.”

“It’s fine. I’m good with water.” I hold up my glass and take a sip.

She nods. We look at each other for a beat.

She purses her lips and smiles. “Continue…”

💬 Excerpt 2 – Aftershock and Intimacy
I crawl into his lap without thinking, straddling him carefully, the towel draping us both like a cloak. My hands frame his face. “You didn’t make the wrong call. He’s the one being reckless, not you. You’re not alone, Seamus. You’re not.”

There’s a war behind his eyes. I kiss his forehead. His nose. His cheek. Then I hold him. Until the shaking stops. Until the shallow breaths even out.

“I hate Caldwell taking up space in your head.” I stroke his chest. “After everything.”

“I can handle the pressure. I always knew the risk that doing the right thing by Miranda could tank my residency.” He palms my lower back and tugs me toward him. “It’s a weird vibe at the hospital. I feel like everyone’s watching me.”

I set down my mug and turn to him. “Because of him?”

He nods, jaw tight. “He’s the head of my program. If he wants to ice me out, doors will close. Slowly. Quietly. I’m working with a lot of other surgeons right now, which is normal during research year…” He exhales, frustrated. “I can feel it. Something’s shifted.”

“Could you switch specialties?” I hate how helpless I sound.

“No. It would be starting over.” He shakes his head. “I’ve come too far. I’m halfway through my residency. I love neurosurgery. I can’t let this derail my dream.”

I struggle to find words. “I’m sorry, baby…”

“Don’t. It’s not your fault.” He puts his finger to my lips. “I made a choice. I’d make it again. I don’t know what comes next. I’ll fight for what I believe in.”

I shift to the side of him, curling one leg under me as I study his face. He’s not just tired. He’s…worn thin. Like something’s slowly eating away at him, and he’s been trying to outpace it for weeks. “Could you transfer? I mean—if Caldwell keeps making things worse, would another school take you?”

He leans his head back and stares up at the ceiling like it holds the answer. “I don’t want to leave Seattle. My family’s here. You’re here. Everything I love is here.”

His words should comfort me, right? He doesn’t want to leave. He’s factoring me into the calculus.

Instead, it makes my mind race.

💬 Excerpt 3 – The Stakes Are Everything
Miranda’s. Her family deserves hope. Trust. Honesty.
We want to give them their daughter back. It’s important to coach them through what to expect.

I gesture to Layla, the nurse practitioner. “Can you take Miranda into the children’s waiting room and give her one of the iPads? We need to chat with her parents.”

“Sure.” Layla winks at me and leads Miranda from the room, looking over her shoulder with a distinct nod toward the exit sign.
Yeah. I’ve been there. Not going back for seconds.

My longtime mentor, Bryce Caldwell, clears his throat from the other side of the room, reminding me he’s in charge.

“Mr. and Mrs. Black. We’ll be using MRI-guided laser interstitial thermal therapy.”

He doesn’t see the benefit of being soft—a point of contention between us on occasion.

“Lasers make this surgery minimally invasive, and our goal is to remove as many of the tumors as possible while preserving healthy brain function.”

Myra sucks her bottom lip over her teeth. “What are the risks, again?”

“Either way, they’re severe.” Bryce doesn’t sugarcoat.

“The tumors are deep. Near the brainstem and the motor cortex. There’s a significant risk of bleeding, swelling, and neurological damage. Surgery is our best option.”

“Which means there are bad options.” Mr. Black chokes back a sob.

Bryce barely inclines his head. “Leaving the tumors in will make life agonizing. Along the way, Miranda will endure debilitating headaches. Seizures. All sorts of complications. There are always risks in neurosurgery. In my opinion, this operation is the only option.”

Jesus. He’s like a robot.

I step in before the conversation turns completely mechanical.

“We’ve gone over Miranda’s case extensively. Dr. Caldwell is the best. I’ll be assisting every step of the way.” I meet their eyes, my voice steady. “We’ll take care of her like she’s our own.”

Mrs. Black bursts into tears. “Do you promise?”

Something clenches in my chest. “I promise we’ll do everything we can.”

It’s not the answer she wants. It’s the truth.

***

The OR is cold, sterile, and humming with focused energy. I feel at home here, in a room where nerves don’t exist. Where they can’t exist.

Miranda looks impossibly tiny on the table, her head secured in a rigid frame. I’ve assisted in dozens of surgeries.
Something about this one feels different.

Maybe it’s her age. Maybe it’s the way she looked at me before they wheeled her in here.
Maybe it’s because I need this to go well—not just for her.

For me. For my career. For my sanity.

Bryce stands at the head of the table, his presence commanding. Movements deliberate. He’s been in the game forever. His reputation borders on legendary. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful to be learning under him.

There’s always an unspoken tension between us—the unmovable old-school mentor and the ambitious resident who embraces a new way of patient care, yet still has to prove himself.

“LITT system ready?” Bryce peers over his glasses.

“Ready,” I confirm, my steady hands poised and prepared.

The MRI monitor glows, displaying the biggest tumor in real-time imaging. It’s invasive, nestled dangerously close to critical structures. Not unbeatable, though.

“Target locked.” I focus in. “Ready for ablation.”

Bryce activates the laser. The heat burns through the tumor, destroying the cancerous tissue while sparing the surrounding brain tissue.

It’s delicate, precise work, and I watch every movement with fascination as I do everything he asks of me.

This man is an artist.

For the first hour, everything goes according to plan.
The tumor is responding, shrinking under the guided heat.

Until—