18. Hunter

EIGHTEEN

Hunter

The Southern Kitchen instead, she leans into my touch, her eyes searching mine, as if she's waiting for me to make the next move.

And then, without thinking, I do. I lean down and press my lips to hers, the kiss soft at first, tentative, like I'm testing the waters. But the moment our lips meet, it's like something snaps inside me—a floodgate opening, releasing everything I've been holding back.

Frankie responds almost immediately, her hands sliding up to rest against my chest, grasping my shirt into two fistfuls, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, becomes more urgent, more intense. I can't help the low groan that escapes from the back of my throat. It's like I've been starving for this, for her, and now that I've had a taste, I don't want to stop.

The world around us blurs, fades away, until it's just the two of us, standing in the middle of the city street, lost in each other. The kiss is sensual, almost too much, but it's everything my instinct knew it would be. It's like my body is finally being honest, doing what I've been too afraid to admit I wanted.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, our foreheads resting against each other. The air between us crackles with tension, with something new, something we've been trying to avoid but can't anymore.

"I… I didn't mean for that to happen," I murmur, my voice rough, still out of breath. But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. I meant every second of it to happen.

Frankie's eyes meet mine, and I can see the same confusion, the same conflict swirling there. But there's something else too, telling me she's as into this as I am, even if neither of us knows what the hell to do about it.

My mind is spinning, trying to come up with something appropriate to say while also assessing what that meant. I want to follow her lead since she is so self-assured and measured, but I can tell she is waiting to see what I say, what I do.

The reality of whatever this is, both together with work, and this blossoming "thing," whatever it is, after work, we can't just pretend that didn't happen. We also can't dive headfirst into something that neither of us is sure what it is.

Frankie shifts slightly, her hand still resting on my lower back after loosening the hug. I can see the conflict in her eyes—like, what the fuck.

"I… I should probably head home," she finally says, her voice soft but steady. She takes a small step back, her hand slipping away from my body. The loss of her touch is immediate and sharp.

"Yeah," I agree, though the word is like sandpaper in my throat. "We have a busy day tomorrow. I have two surgeries early before our meeting with Bench."

Her eyes flicker with something. I'm not sure if it is disappointment or relief. Maybe both. She nods slowly, her gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before she looks back up at me. "Thank you for tonight. This was a delightful change to my boring schedule."

There's so much more I want to say, but the words get tangled up in my head, stuck somewhere between what I feel and what I'm afraid to admit. Instead, I just nod, the silence stretching out between us like a chasm.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," she says, taking another step back, putting more distance between us. Her voice is quiet, almost tentative, like she's testing the waters of whatever this is between us now.

"Yeah," I reply, trying to muster up a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Tomorrow."

She hesitates for just a second like she might say something else, but then she turns and starts walking away. I watch her go, my chest tight, every instinct in me screaming to call her back, to close the gap between us again. But I stay rooted in place, knowing that this is how it has to be. For now.

As she disappears around the corner, I let out my breath, the night suddenly a lot more dreary than it did a few minutes ago.

We're both in too deep already, and if we're going to make anything of this—whatever "this" is—we have to take it one step at a time. Rushing in will only make everything more complicated and confusing.

We both seem to be aware that if we hadn't already, we've crossed a line, and there's no going back. And finally, for the first time since all of this started months ago, I don't want to.

Tuesday, May 28

UAB Hospital

9 :32 am

The OR is quiet, the only sounds coming from the steady beeping of the monitors and the soft murmurs of my surgical team. We've been at this one since six this morning, and we are making good time.

I'm in my element, finishing up a routine coronary artery bypass grafting, a CABG, as my team and I call it. My hands move swiftly, suturing the graft into place, making sure the blood flow is restored to the heart. It's a familiar rhythm, one I've done countless times before, and yet today, my mind keeps drifting away from the task at hand.

I should be focused solely on this patient, on making sure everything goes perfectly, but I can't stop thinking about what's coming later today—the meeting with Theo Bench and Frankie, the next steps for our pacemaker trial. And, if I'm being honest, the memory of last night keeps sneaking in, unbidden and unwelcome.

"Dr. Parrish, all vitals are stable," one of the nurses says, snapping me back to the present.

"Good," I reply, my voice steady even as my mind continues to race. I glance at the monitors, confirming the readings for myself before turning my attention back to the sutures. The graft is secure, the heart is beating strong, and we're almost done here.

As I carefully close the incision, I can't help but replay last night's walk with Frankie, the way her lips felt against mine as our time was coming to an end. My dick twitches a bit at the memory of the way her arms felt wrapped around me.

I should be thinking about the trial, about what we're going to discuss this afternoon. Theo's been pushing hard to get everything ready for the next phase, and today's meeting is critical. We need to finalize the protocol, ensure we're all on the same page before we present it to the FDA for approval. It's a huge step forward, and I can't lose my focus.

Instead, I'm thinking about how I'm going to face Frankie after everything that happened between us. Last night was different, and it's gnawing at me. I've been able to chalk up the two times in the lab as a product of extenuating circumstances. But last night was an unforced error, and there is nothing I can pin it on except what is going on inside of me regarding my growing affection for her.

"Almost done," I murmur, more to myself than to anyone else, as I finish the final stitches. The surgery went smoothly—textbook, really—but I can't shake the feeling that I'm off my game today.

I step back, letting the nurse take over the closing, and strip off my gloves, the cool air hitting my bare hands. Normally, I'd be relieved at the end of a successful surgery, but today there's no satisfaction. Just a gnawing anxiety about the meeting this afternoon, about seeing Frankie again.

"Dr. Parrish," one resident says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Everything looks good. Should we proceed with post-op protocols?"

"Yes," I reply, giving a quick nod. "Make sure the patient is monitored closely for any signs of complications. I'll check in on her later."

As I walk out of the OR, I push the thoughts of Frankie and the trial to the back of my mind, at least for a few more hours. But it's no use. They're there, just beneath the surface, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

Today is another full one. I've got a meeting with Dibbins in between surgeries and then a few hours before the meeting with Bench, so I need to get my head straight. I can't afford to be distracted, not with so much riding on this project.

2:12 pm

I'm peeling off my surgical gown, the material sticky with sweat from the protective layers, when I hear the door to the locker room swing open. I glance over my shoulder to see Shep Duncan walking in, looking as worn out as I am. He's already pulling off his gloves, his face set in that focused expression he always wears after a tough case.

"What's up, Duncan?" I greet him, tossing my gown into the bin and reaching for my scrub top.

"Hunter," Shep nods, his voice a little gravelly, probably from hours of talking his team through the intricacies of brain surgery. He starts removing his own gear, and I can see the fatigue in his movements, the kind that comes after a particularly grueling procedure.

"How'd your case go?" I ask, more out of habit than anything. Shep's a damn good neurosurgeon, and his cases are often far more complex than mine.

"Complicated," Shep admits, pulling off his mask. "Had to navigate through some seriously delicate tissue. Took longer than expected, but the patient pulled through. It's a glioblastoma, so it's a tough one. I think we bought him some significant time. Touch and go for a while, though."

I nod, knowing how those kinds of surgeries can drain you, both physically and emotionally. "Glad to hear it, man. Mine was routine, my second CABG today. Quick and clean, no surprises."

He grunts in acknowledgment, hanging up his gown and reaching for his scrub shirt. "I'd take that."

As we both start washing up, Shep glances at me sideways, a look I've come to recognize. He's got something on his mind. "So, did you ever get a chance to talk with Dibbins about your mom's Hodgkin's?"

I pause, letting the warm water run over my hands as I think back to earlier today. "Yeah, actually, I did. Spoke with him this morning in between surgeries."

Shep raises an eyebrow, clearly interested. "And?"

I take a deep breath, as a strange mix of relief and tension consume me. "He's going to review her chart notes and treatment plan, see if there's anything we're missing or if there's a better approach we haven't considered."

Shep nods, his expression serious. "Good. I'm glad you talked to him. Dibbins knows his shit, and it's important you're on top of it, especially with it being your mom."

I glance at Shep, grateful for his friendship. "Yeah. Thanks for pushing me on that. I needed to get over myself and actually do something."

Shep gives me a small, understanding smile. "It's never easy dealing with this stuff when it's personal. But you know as well as I do that getting another set of eyes on it can make all the difference."

"Exactly," I agree, drying my hands off and finding myself a little more settled. "Its weird being on this side of things—trying to be the concerned son and the objective doctor at the same time."

"Can't say I envy you," Shep replies, slinging his towel over his shoulder. "But you've got good instincts, Hunter. Trust them."

I give him a nod of appreciation. "Thanks, dude. I'll see what Dibbins comes up with."

"Keep me posted," Shep says, his tone lightening as he finishes washing up. "And if you need to talk it out or just grab a beer, you know where to find me."

I chuckle, as my tight muscles seem to release ever so slightly. "I might take you up on that."

We finish getting dressed, the conversation drifting to lighter topics as we head out of the locker room. Before I leave for my next stop, I thank him again for encouraging me to talk to Dibbins. I guess I needed that extra nudge to do the right thing from time-to-time.

I'm starting to realize I need that in more areas than just with dealing with my complicated relationship with my mom and dealing with her diagnosis.