The hum of the overhead fluorescents is the only sound in the Harrowmen’s medical wing. Quinn Reilly aligns the digital thermometer with the edge of her tablet, her touch clinical and precise. Everything in this room has a place. The stainless steel surfaces gleam under the harsh white light, reflecting a woman who at twenty-four has already mastered the art of the poker face. She is the youngest physician the franchise has ever hired, and she intends to remain their most disciplined.
Saturday night was the only lapse. The scent of expensive bourbon and the heat of a coat-room corner still haunt the back of her throat. She traces a finger over the smooth glass of her tablet, checking the morning's schedule. A torn labrum. The captain. She hasn't seen him in the daylight, only felt the rough calluses of his hands and the desperate, forbidden pull of his mouth against hers. Keep it professional, Quinn. He’s just a chart now.
Footsteps heavy with the gait of a pro athlete echo in the corridor. They stop directly outside her station. The frosted glass door begins to swing open, revealing the broad silhouette of the man she kissed forty-eight hours ago.
