Chapter 1. The Party in the Basement

I’m on my fourth cup of coffee today, and as I finish it, I’m already bracing for my Christmas Eve gift: tachycardia. Being a coffee addict isn’t ideal in your first year as a fellow at St. Maria’s General Hospital. “No” isn’t exactly an option when Chief Kermit asks you to cover extra shifts. The hospital’s chronically understaffed, and his guilt-tripping amphibian eyes make refusal feel impossible.

Cat says I have a people-pleasing problem, which is probably why I can’t say no to Frog (yes, that’s what everyone calls Chief Kermit, for obvious reasons). But the truth is, the thought of another doctor handling my serious patients while I’m lounging on the sofa in my new downtown apartment makes my skin crawl. (No, I haven’t bought a bed yet. Don’t ask. I’m just relieved my place is finally only a twenty-minute walk from the hospital.)

Cat also says I have a perfectionist streak—and she’s not wrong. But hey, that streak got me here, didn’t it? So, I’m not about to start dismantling my core personality just because it occasionally turns my life into a dumpster fire.

Anyway, it’s Christmas Eve. I’m sitting in an empty patient room, wrapping up paperwork for Mrs. Connolly, who went home today, jaundice-free. Somewhere in the background, the faint strains of music filter in from the basement. That would be the annual Christmas Eve party in the conference room—a hospital tradition where doctors, nurses, interns, and other staff gather for free booze and a buffet.

Cat’s already sent me eight increasingly typo-laden texts from the party. I can tell she’s officially hammered—her normally flawless spelling has taken a nosedive. That’s the dead giveaway her prefrontal cortex has decided to clock out for the night.

It’s her ninth text that stops me cold.

Doctr Gaybrows jst came up to talk two me!!!!!!!!!

The instant I read it, a wave of hot jealousy floods my insides like wildfire. Cat is my best friend, my ride-or-die, the person I’d commit unspeakable acts for if anyone so much as hurt her feelings. But this ? Hearing that James Gabrielle —the man I’ve been quietly, pathetically pining over for the better part of a year—actually approached her and started a conversation? For a solid ten seconds, I can’t see straight.

But then logic cuts through the haze. Cat would never intentionally hurt me. Never. That’s just not who she is. So I can’t be mad at her, even if every fiber of my being is screaming at the unfairness of the universe. James Gabrielle, the unattainable, too-gorgeous-for-words attending who barely spares a glance at us fresh-out-of-residency fellows unless it’s work-related, is downstairs right now , talking to Cat. At the party. And I’m up here doing paperwork like a chump.

It makes my stomach churn. My fingers itch to chuck Mrs. Connolly’s file across the room and sprint downstairs. What could he possibly be saying to her? Is he drunk? Did he decide tonight is the night to finally engage in small talk with the mere mortals of the hospital? And if so, is this my chance? Could I casually insert myself into the conversation and maybe—just maybe —exchange words with him that aren’t about morbid diseases?

I fire off a text:

Whuuut? What did he say?

Cat’s reply comes almost immediately:

sayING. He’s stil here. He’s askinng me about my plans for Chrstmas.

My stomach tightens. Before I can process that, she sends another text:

I think you won!!! Hes NOT gay.

I reread the message twice, disappointment sitting heavy in my chest. How did she figure that out already? I mean, James Gabrielle’s sexual orientation has been the centerpiece of our ongoing debate for the better part of a year. And ironically, Cat was the one who was so certain he was gay—not me. That’s why we nicknamed him Dr. Gaybrows in the first place.

It all started because Cat decided his perfectly groomed eyebrows were definitive proof. Yes, eyebrows . According to Cat’s highly scientific standards, no straight man would bother sculpting his brows—unless it was just a quick cleanup of the unibrow situation. But Dr. Gabrielle’s brows? They were on another level: subtle, refined, just barely touched. Not overly plucked, mind you, but noticeably sculpted if you look closely. And in Cat’s words, “No guy puts that kind of effort into his face unless he’s trying to impress other guys.”

The absurdity of it all actually made me pretend to be mad at her once. “You can’t just call someone gay based on their eyebrows, Cat!” I’d snapped, though secretly, I was entertained. The debates snowballed from there, evolving into what we dubbed the Gaybrows Feud. It got so ridiculous that I started scouring my phone for pictures of every straight guy I knew (not a huge sample size, admittedly) to try to prove her wrong. And, much to my dismay, I couldn’t find a single example of a straight man with brows as sculpted as Dr. Gabrielle’s.

Cat, of course, never let me live it down. She even swore up and down that she had expertise because she used to do eyebrow shaping as a side hustle during med school. “Trust me, I know gay brows when I see them,” she’d said with smug authority. And, frustratingly, I had to admit she had a point.

But now? Now she’s suddenly convinced he’s straight? After one tipsy conversation at a Christmas party? The whole thing feels surreal, and honestly, I’m a little mad about it.

I glance nervously at my phone, hoping for more details as I try to focus on finishing my paperwork. I’m perched on the edge of a patient’s bed, balancing an open folder on my knee, while the obscene amount of caffeine in my system makes my leg jittery and my thoughts race in circles. It’s not exactly helping me finish faster.

Ten minutes and several deep sighs later, I finally close the folder with a satisfying snap and bolt out of the room to hand it off to Kelly, the administrator. Once that’s done, I’m officially free.

I head straight to the changing room to ditch my lab coat, then make a pit stop in the bathroom to check myself in the mirror. My reflection stares back: hair slightly frazzled but fixable, face passable with a little adjustment. I smooth down my shirt, straighten my collar, and take a breath. Not perfect, but it’ll have to do.

Then, I’m practically sprinting toward the stairwell that leads to the basement. My anxiety is already whispering that James Gabrielle is the kind of guy to have one drink, make polite conversation, and ghost the party before anyone even notices he was there.

As I stumble into the basement conference room, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure everyone can hear it, I’m immediately overwhelmed. The dim lighting and the sheer number of people make it feel impossible to find Cat in the crowd. I weave through the clusters of staff and tables piled high with buffet food, scanning faces like a lost kitten searching for its mother.

And then I spot them.

Cat and James are standing at one of the high-top tables, champagne glasses in hand, chatting like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My heart plummets.

Cat is unmistakably drunk—her hair is a ruffled mess, her cheeks flushed, her glossy eyes sparkling with tipsy energy. She’s gesticulating wildly, mid-laugh, clearly in the middle of one of her dramatic stories. James, on the other hand, looks infuriatingly composed and impossibly attractive. He’s wearing a sleek black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms, his hair perfectly styled. His expression is neutral but attentive, and he exudes that kind of effortless cool that makes you question every decision you’ve made about your appearance today.

I instinctively veer into a beeline toward them but hesitate as I get closer, unsure whether to approach or wait until their conversation wraps up. I slow my pace, trying to decide, when James suddenly looks up and locks eyes with me.

My breath catches. He blinks.

Panic starts to rise in my chest. Now that he’s seen me, there’s no way to back out, no pretending I didn’t just spot them. I have to go over there unless I want to confirm to the universe that I’m exactly the swoony, awkward mess I’m trying desperately not to be.

As if on cue, Cat notices me, too. Her face lights up, and in her drunken enthusiasm, she starts waving like I’m a long-lost friend returning from war. Oh, and because she’s Cat, she throws in some ridiculous eyebrow waggling toward James for good measure— the eyebrows, really, Cat? Just in case I needed any more reasons to wish for spontaneous combustion.

Heat floods my face as I force myself to walk toward them, my feet dragging like they’ve turned to lead. My mind races, scrambling for something—anything—to say. Something smart, maybe even funny. What do you even say to someone you’ve already seen today?

“Heeeeey, Sunshineee!” Cat drawls, stumbling forward to throw her arms around me like we haven’t seen each other in years instead of three hours ago.

I cringe internally. Sunshine. I hate when she calls me that in front of other people. Ray is already a weird enough name—it sounds fine until you say it out loud and realize it literally means a beam of light. But now she’s adding Sunshine into the mix, and I just know everyone’s going to assume we’re sleeping together or something.

Because nobody at the hospital really knows I’m gay—except for Cat and Nadine, one of the nurses who’s become a bit of a mother figure to me.

I hug Cat back briefly, trying not to glance at James. The last thing I need is to see if he’s looking or—worse—judging.

Cat untangles herself from me and waves her champagne glass in James’s direction, spilling a little on the floor. “James and I were just talking about you!”

My heart skips a beat. James? Since when are they on a first-name basis? And wait—they were talking about me?

As I approach the table, I finally let myself glance at Gabrielle. To my disappointment, he’s not even looking at me—he’s already checking his phone. Really? Am I so boring that he can’t even say hello without needing a quick hit of dopamine?

“Hey,” I say, forcing myself to sound casual.

When he finally looks up, his eyes have that slightly dazed, deer-in-the-headlights look—cute, innocent, and somehow disarming. For a split second, I wonder if “hey” was too casual for a fellow to say to a senior attending. Panic flares.

“Hi…sir,” I blurt out, tacking on the last word awkwardly.

Oh God. The second it leaves my mouth, I realize how ridiculous it sounds. Gabrielle’s eyes gleam with a flicker of amusement, and I can feel my face heating up to match the Christmas lights on the walls.

It doesn’t help that the guy looks like a damn Greek god—lean muscle showing just enough under his button-down, golden skin, and dark hair that falls slightly over his forehead, making him look like the lead in a cheesy rom-com.

While I stand there, burning alive from the inside out, Gabrielle blinks at me, quirks a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and says, “You can ditch the ‘sir’ while we’re at the party, Ray.”

“Okay…thanks,” I mumble awkwardly, shoving my hands into my pockets. I try to calm down, to get a grip on my racing heart, but the sheer proximity of Gabrielle—especially without his lab coat—is doing something to me that’s definitely worth a session with my therapist.

“What were you talking about?” I ask, shifting my gaze to Cat and trying to sound nonchalant like my nerves aren’t currently on fire.

“I was telling James that you just moved into your new apartment closer to the hospital,” Cat says, swaying slightly as she leans against the table.

“No more hour-long commutes,” I add, stretching my lips into that awkward, polite smile you give when passing a senior doctor in the hallway. “Twenty minutes now.”

“You two live together?” James asks, his tone casual, his expression neutral—except for a quick glance at Cat.

“No,” Cat and I answer in unison, and I can feel my face heating up again.

James nods, takes a small sip of his drink, and then his pager goes off. He glances at the screen, frowning slightly. “Excuse me,” he says and steps away from the table without another word.

I watch him disappear into the crowd, disappointment settling in my chest like a weight I can’t shake.

“Shit,” Cat mutters, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp. “I thought this was your chance to finally talk to him.”

“Whatever,” I say, though the frustration in my voice betrays me. I know it’s not Cat’s fault that James Gabrielle doesn’t care about me—not the way I want him to—but it doesn’t stop the sting.

“Maybe he’ll come back,” Cat says, though her tone isn’t exactly convincing.

I nod, even though I don’t believe it either. Taking a deep breath, I push away the ugly flicker of jealousy I felt toward her earlier. Friends like Cat are rarer than sexy guys with brooding gazes and muscles for days. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

But there’s still one question gnawing at me, making it impossible to fully let it go.

“Why did you say he’s definitely not gay?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual and not like the needy, pathetic fangirl I absolutely feel like.

Cat hesitates, looking slightly uncomfortable, before finally answering. “He told me he was waiting for me when he came up.”

“Wow.” The balloon of disappointment in my chest grows so big it’s hard to breathe. “So, I was right. He’s not gay.”

“Who knows,” Cat says, slinging an arm around my neck and planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “There’s still a chance he meant something else, Sunshine.”

I sigh. I know she’s just trying to make me feel better, but the truth is, it doesn’t help much.

“I promise, if he’s straight and tries anything with me, I’ll tell him to go fuck himself,” Cat says, her drunken determination making me laugh despite myself.

“You’re the best,” I say, my chest tight with a mix of guilt and gratitude. She really is the best, and here I am, feeling like a jealous, pathetic little loser. Ugh.

“I want to get hammered,” I say, suddenly deciding the night is salvageable if it involves forgetting everything with alcohol.

Cat’s face lights up. “Yessss! I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

***

It’s two hours later, and I’ve had so much gin and tonic that my mouth tastes like I just made out with a rosemary-and-ginger-flavored monster or something. Everything around me in the hospital basement is fuzzy, the lights and voices blending into a cozy, drunken haze.

Cat and I are camped out at a square table in the corner of the room, swapping residency stories. We both did residencies at different hospitals before landing here as fellows. Cat’s throwing back shots of something questionable that she’ll definitely regret tomorrow—but since she has the day off, she doesn’t care. Me? I’m not so lucky. I don’t have a day off. In fact, I’m on call tomorrow night, right on Christmas.

Not that it matters. I didn’t have plans, so when Frog dangled double pay for holiday shifts, I signed up faster than I’d like to admit. I really need the money for new furniture, especially a bed. I can’t sleep on the sofa much longer, or my back will give out.

Now, as I sip what’s left of my drink, I know my hangover is going to try to kill me tomorrow morning. But I should be fine by the time my shift starts at eight. Worst case, a couple of ibuprofen capsules will save me.

Cat’s in the middle of telling me about some massive crush she had during her residency at St. Clover’s Memorial when I see him.

James. Freaking. Gabrielle.

He’s back. He just walked into the room and is heading straight for the drinks like a man on a mission.

“Cat, Cat, look,” I hiss, tapping her shoulder and nodding toward him. “He’s back.”

“Who?” Cat blinks at me, her drunken puppy-dog expression all confused, but then her gaze locks onto Gabrielle. She nearly squeals as she turns to me. “Yes! I told you he’d come back! You should go talk to him!”

I frown, taking an unnecessarily large gulp of my gin and tonic. “Why?” I slur. “We’ve established he’s not gay.”

“Who cares! Go talk to him anyway. If he’s straight, it’s even better—you won’t ruin anything. No pressure. That’s how I usually get over my crushes—either I sleep with them or have a serious conversation and kill the fantasy.”

I shake my head firmly. “Nah.” I’m drunk, but the hollow pit in my stomach screams at me that it’s a bad idea.

I watch Gabrielle toss back a shot, then pick up another one. I’m so focused on him that I almost miss Cat’s next words.

“ I dare you ,” she says, her voice sly, “ now pick a number .”

My heart drops. No. She wouldn’t.

Then again, it’s her turn, so she totally can.

This is a game we play when we’re bored. One of us says I dare you, pick a number, and the other has to open a randomizer app on their phone, which spits out a number between 0 and 7. That’s how many dares the other person has to complete. If you refuse any of the dares, you owe the other person one wish—redeemable at any time, no exceptions. Oh, and one refusal equals one wish.

I groan, purse my lips, and open the app, silently begging for a zero. I set the parameters, hit the button, and…

It’s a 5.

I groan louder as Cat leans over the table to peek at my phone, her face lighting up like she’s just won the lottery.

“You’re my bitch now,” she cackles, giving me an affectionate slap on the back. “Don’t worry, Sunshine, I’ll be tasteful.”

Tasteful. Right. Whoever came up with this stupid game should be banned from society. But I know one thing for sure: when playing this game with Cat, it’s always better to just do the dares. Otherwise, she’ll redeem the wishes at the worst possible moment.

“Fine,” I say, clenching my jaw. “Shoot.”

Cat’s face lights up. “I dare you to go ask Dr. Gaybrows if he works out.”

I nearly choke on my gin and tonic, laughter exploding out of me before I can stop it. Cat joins in, and for a few glorious minutes, we’re both laughing so hard my stomach starts to hurt. Somewhere in the middle of it, the absurdity of the situation hits me—and with it, a rush of reckless courage.

“Easy,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. But as soon as I take a step, it’s like the room tilts sideways, and I feel all the alcohol hit me at once. Shit. I’m way drunker than I thought. Not that it matters. That’s a problem for tomorrow Ray.

I straighten my back, set my sights on Gabrielle, and start making my way across the room.