Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“There you go,” I say quietly. “That’s all it takes. One step at a time.”
I step back to give her space. Tabitha shoots me a quick look as she returns, confused but not questioning. Angie keeps her focus on her work, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her hand steadies with each pass of the blade.
I exhale, moving to the next table, but my thoughts linger. Angie is stronger than she thinks. I just hope I can keep my focus where it belongs—on teaching her, not on the way she makes my chest tighten every time I’m near.
But all I can think about is how I felt inside her, how I want to feel it again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Angie
The scalpel feels heavier than it should, like it’s mocking me.
Tabitha is doing fine, her focus locked on the pale line of her incision, her movements confident and precise. I should be grateful she’s not pressuring me to take over, but her calm competence only makes me feel worse. My chest tightens as I stare at the cadaver, and I can’t bring myself to make another cut.
Across the room, Jason is with another group, his voice steady as he gives instructions. I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying, but his tone carries that same calm authority, that quiet encouragement that somehow makes you feel like you can’t fail as long as he’s there. I steal a glance at him, watching the way he leans slightly toward one of the students, his hands moving confidently as he demonstrates the proper grip on a scalpel. He makes it look so easy, so natural.
I wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s disappointed in me.
I shake my head, trying to shove the thoughts away. This isn’t about him—it can’t be about him. I’m here to learn, to focus, but my brain doesn’t seem to care. Every time I hear his voice, every time he moves into my line of sight, my stomach twists into a knot. It’s not just that he’s good at what he does, though he is. It’s the way he carries himself, the way he seems to command the room without trying. The way his green eyes flicker with an intensity that makes me feel seen, even when I’m trying my hardest to disappear.
“Angie,” Tabitha says softly, jolting me out of my thoughts. She’s still focused on the cadaver, her voice quiet but steady. “Do you want to take the next layer?”
My throat tightens. “Uh…no, you go ahead.” I pretend to adjust my gloves.
Tabitha doesn’t push. Why would she? If I choose not to cut, she gets to do it more, and she wants to do it.
She nods and continues working, and I hate myself for feeling both relieved and ashamed. I glance toward Jason again—he’s with Jennifer and Tobias now, correcting Tobias’s grip on the scalpel. He’s patient, focused. A perfect teacher, and as I watch him, I can imagine what a perfect and precise surgeon he was before his hand injury.
“Angie,” Tabitha cuts through my thoughts. “Are you okay?”
I nod quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
But I know I’m not fine. Not even close.
I glance at Jason again, my pulse quickening. He’s helping Jennifer and Tobias, leaning over the table to guide Tobias’s hand with a calm, steady presence. His voice is low, clear, and even though he’s too far away for me to hear what he’s saying, I can almost feel the warmth of it curling in the pit of my stomach.
It’s been a week. Just seven days, and I still can’t stop thinking about him. About the way he showed up at my door unannounced, a bottle of wine in one hand and that hesitant grin on his face. He said he wanted to celebrate—some good news from a specialist about a possible surgery that might fix the nerve damage in his hand.
I poured the wine, trying to act casual, but I felt the tension simmering between us. The next minute we were fucking in my kitchen.
“Angie,” he’d murmured, his voice low and rough, his forehead resting against mine. “This can’t happen…”
But it already had.
And neither of us stopped it.
Now, standing in the bright and sterile lab, the memory of that night feels like a secret I’m carrying around, too heavy and too precious all at once. I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this, especially not here, not while I’m supposed to be focused on my first dissection. But every time I hear his voice or catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, the memory crashes over me again—his hands in my hair, the way he pulled me close, the quiet way he said my name like it meant something more.
“Angie.” Tabitha’s voice jolts me back to the present. She’s watching me, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure you’re okay? You haven’t made another cut yet.”