Trevor

Another extended shift in the books. Don't get me wrong, I like my job, in fact, I'm actually oddly excited to come to work. I think it's fair to say that when you've chased something for so long, there's a prideful satisfaction in actually living it.

The ER is this weird combination of high intensity excitement and long drawn out tediousness that just somehow makes the day worth it. But it's days like today, when I'm running on my fourteenth hour after an already long night of drunk bar fights and overconsumption of party goods, that I'm second guessing the whole medical path.

"Dr. James," I hear behind me as I type in the last note from my previous patient before turning to face the nurse making her way down the hall. Her bright blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and the kind look in her soft brown eyes tells me she's about to throw another one my way. "Room three is all yours."

I check over my shoulder, looking for Dr. Reed as I adjust the stethoscope around my neck. I don't get a chance to place him before there's a hand on my arm. I turn back to see Madi's knowing smile as she drops me that look. "I already checked with him and he said you're good to go on your own. It's just a small laceration to the left index finger. Nothing serious."

Perfect. Actually, I could use some not-so-serious right about now. "Please tell me they're sober."

As a year two resident ER doctor, I get the high and mighty privilege of night shift, and though the majority of my job is done with a doctor breathing down my neck to check my work and approve my decisions, I'm still the newbie they send to deal with the intoxicated bliss of our dear town.

Madi smiles, tipping her head with some kind of knowing smirk. "You that tired, huh?" she questions.

"It's been a long night."

"Nothing more than usual." She shrugs like a pro. "Or are you still stressed about finding a new roommate?"

Exhaling, I let my head fall back as I take in the luminescent lighting. Its blinding white light spreads across my vision, making everything gain a nice blur. "Why is it so hard to find a reliable, sane, person to live with?"

She laughs. "It's not. You're picky, Dr. James."

"I'm not–"

The way she levels me with a look has me swallowing my words. Okay, so I might be slightly picky. But my best friend left me on a whim to move in with his girlfriend, and finding a replacement roommate hasn't exactly gone as planned.

"It's not a bad thing," she offers with that simple tone of sympathy. "You never know, your next house buddy might be right around the corner."

"House buddy?"

"Room dweller?"

"I think you need sleep more than I do."

"You might be right," she says behind a yawn. "She's sober, by the way."

"Who's sober?" I ask.

Madi sighs. "The patient you're leaving waiting in Room three."

Shit. "Right."

"Have fun, Dr. James," she says, slapping a palm to my chest before walking past me.

What the hell does that mean? I check the charts, not paying much attention to the details before making my way down the hall. What I wouldn't give for a nap, or a burger. Fuck, I would even take our cafeteria's finest.

I reach for the door, pushing back a yawn before stepping inside. "Hi, I'm–"

"Trevor fucking James."

The woman occupying the small hospital bed captures my full attention with her silky voice of confidence, and I'd be lying if those three simple words didn't challenge all professional promises I've sworn.

A pair of crystal blue eyes stare back at me, a wide-eyed knowing glare pricking at my memory. "Lacy?" I ask like a real idiot, as if those very eyes aren't the ones I used to drool over in my late teenage years.

She smiles. And it's not the cute, flirty smile you'd expect in a moment like this. Nope. It's a smile that's all Lacy's. This mixture of take no bullshit and utter breathtaking beauty that she somehow effortlessly produces without even a clue as to what she's capable of. Like if I'm not fucking careful, it'll bring me to my damn knees.

"The one and only," she acknowledges with a small shrug. The movement has my eyes dropping. The smooth skin along her shoulders is no longer bare like it was in high school. There's art there, intricate designs etched into her skin. Without being too nosy and completely destroying my professional integrity, I tear my eyes away, taking note of the way her hair has changed.

It's darker now, the deep brown pulled back into some type of bun thing on top of her head, the ends laced in a dark purple. It's nearly the opposite from the cotton candy pink and blue she used to sport, but it's been close to ten years since I've seen her, and the fact she's held onto a bit of that color keeps something warm inside my chest.

I take a few steps into the room, planting myself in front of her. The splashes of dry clay along her arms have me pushing back a smile. "I guess it's safe to assume you're an artist now?" I ask, fighting back the urge to run a finger along the streaks of gray scattered across her arms.

"Wow, a real Sherlock Holmes," she smirks, lifting her brow in challenge. "Do they teach you that high level of perception in medical school?"

I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling, her always forward crass pulling at a familiar string in my chest. "No. I guess they don't."

"That's too bad," she scoffs. "So, you really did the thing then, huh?"

Lifting a curious brow, I bring my eyes level with hers. "The thing?"

"Yeah, you know, saving lives?" She asks the question so sure and obvious, like I've been planted inside of her head, already privy to the conversation she's running with in there.

"You mean a doctor?" I clarify with a cheesy ass smile I can't seem to wipe away. To be honest, I don't even know if I'm amused or intrigued. If there's one thing I do know, it's that I've always been intrigued by the artistic know-it-all that used to bust my balls in high school. "Yeah, I'm almost there. What about you? How have you been?"

"I've been better," she huffs, lifting her bandaged hand and immediately wincing at the motion.

"Right," I quickly acknowledge, reminding my smiling ass that I'm on the clock. I pull up the small stool behind me and bring myself level with her injury.

Slowly, I lift a hand for hers, pausing for a brief moment to catch the brightness of her eyes. They're still just as blue as I remember them, the crystal clear like a vast tropical water. They're different now, though. The deep contrast of her hair pulls out an added glow. One laced in something darker.

I wait for permission to grab her hand, holding mine steadily in front of her. My silent question is answered when she gently rests her wounded hand in mine.

As I scoot in closer, positioning myself to get a better look, the wave of sweet decadence wafts over me. The same delicious smell she always seemed to have is now dancing on a veil of déjà vu.

We've been here before. Her hand in mine as I examine an open wound. I remember that moment like it was yesterday, but I guess you never really forget the moments you regret. It has me wondering if she ever thinks about that day, if it meant the same to her as it did to me.

Refocusing, I shift my attention to the gauze around her finger. It's held together with a strip of medical tape, the red stain of blood contained to a small, fine sized amount, meaning the steady flow of blood has slowed. I pull it back, taking my time to reveal the deep laceration across her finger.

"How'd this happen?" I ask, ignoring the crack in my voice like I'm not still that same teenage boy trying to grow a pair and kiss the pretty girl with candy hair. Instead, I shake away the memories, examining the length and depth of the cut as she takes a breath.

"Shark attack," she blurts without a beat of hesitation.

There's no holding back my laughter at this point. I let the smile stretch across my face as I dare to find that angelic glow of her eyes that is now narrowed on me. I'm thankful for her shift. It allows me to breathe again.

"It could be true," she defends, as if the humor I've found in her claim is somehow offensive.

"You haven't changed a bit, Adams."

"What is that supposed to mean?" There's no bite in her question, the words fall out smooth and honest. It's a genuine curiosity, and that innocent look on her face has me fighting back the urge to apologize. Except if this is the same Lacy who called me on my shit every chance she got, never shying away from keeping me at arm's length, then I know an apology is not what she's looking for.

"It means you're covered in what looks to be clay," I say, dropping my eyes to the streaks of gray on her tanned skin, falling delicately along the toned ridges wrapped perfect as sin in the ink etched there.

"You're doubting my shark encounter?" she gapes with a playful display of shock and disbelief.

I drop my gaze, leveling her with a look. "I'm calling your bullshit," I clarify.

Her brows pull together, a display of the cutest question falling across her eyes. "Are you allowed to cuss? I would think there's some prestigious doctor oath forbidding such debauchery."

"Stop avoiding and admit I'm right."

"Maybe I was cooking. Cut my finger slicing onions."

"You hate onions." There's shock in her eyes now, the way they widen briefly has me pushing back a smile. Of course I remember, I want to say. But I don't.

"I could have been cooking for someone else."

"You could just tell me the truth."

"And what's the fun in that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock. There's challenge in that word, and the way her blue eyes brighten in a temptatious dare has me straightening my posture just a bit, stereotypically puffing my egotistical chest. You want to dance, Lacy, let's dance.

"Your arms are covered in clay, so it's safe to assume you cut your finger doing art." A slight inhale pulls through her lips, and my chest grows a bit wider with my knowing win. "Which means whatever you sliced your finger with probably wasn't sanitized. Odds are it was not only metal, but littered in bacteria. You're going to need a few stitches, and if I'm anywhere in the ballpark of right about the tool you sliced your finger with, then you're also going to need a tetanus shot."

She's gone full doe on me, her widened gaze locked on the proverbial headlights I'm slinging directly at her. She doesn't say anything for a beat, and I'm running through her playful banter, making sure I didn't completely overstep, before her shoulders drop and the audible exhale of the words fuck me fill the air.

They catch me off guard, though I shouldn't be surprised by her lack of filter. "The cut is–" but I don't actually get to finish that statement as a low scream ricochets from her lungs.

"This day just keeps on fucking giving, doesn't it?" she asks, though the rhetoric vibration of it has me assuming she's not actually looking for an answer.

"You'll be numbed for the stitches," I offer. "But you will have to keep them clean and dry for at least twenty-four hours. After that, you'll want to avoid submerging them and continue to keep them clean."

"You do know messy is part of what I do?" The words come out with a bit of force. I don't think it's directed at me, though. There's disbelief behind her eyes, a glimmer of disappointment dancing within her gaze as she holds her breath for a moment longer. "You know, none of this would even be happening if my landlord's loser son didn't quit his job with no other backup plan, leaving me high and dry without any other option than to not only work out of my van but live out of it. I swear–"

"You're living out of your van?" The question shoots from my lips before I've had a chance to process anything else she's saying. I don't intend them to be so rushed or filled in shock, and fuck, I hope there was no judgement behind them. But the way her deeply guarded eyes hold mine has me wondering just how gentle my words came out.

"It's temporary," she quickly answers. "I'm looking for places, but a teacher's salary in a destination beach town where the houses are triple what they're actually worth, doesn't exactly plop me in the land of options."

There's a sense of defeat dancing across her face, a familiar shadow of vulnerability seeping past her walls. I remember how tough she always seemed in high school, the way she kept to herself. The mysterious new girl tucked behind a canvas. I can't explain what made me ask her for help that one day, but I remember it as clear as a movie playing on the big screen.

The rain was pouring, waterfalls hammering the concrete hallways, the heavy pitter patter sloshing brutally against the roof. The class had cleared out and I took extra time to gather my things. She was always the last to leave, and that day, I just wanted to know why.

While my canvas sat bare and lonely, hers was so full of life. There was a story behind her art, a message splayed within each and every stroke. I could watch her for hours, the slow and steady movement of her hand breathing life into something that seemed so simple. It never made sense to me how she made an object feel like something more.

The sudden squeal of my chair along the linoleum floor had me wincing, and her shoulders leaped as those crystal blues connected with me. The fear behind them was so brief but I caught it, aching to hold her against me and tell her everything was going to be okay. But that fear was quickly covered by narrowed eyes and a curt, "Can I help you?"

I didn't know how to respond, or how to explain my sudden obsession with everything her. So I blurted out the first thing that came to mind and asked her to help me with the end of semester project.

I think that's the first day I learned to believe in luck. The first time I thought maybe there was some higher power out there looking out for me. She had no reason to accept my request, and yet, behind the huff and clear eye roll, there was hesitance. And then she said yes.

She helped me. In so many more ways than that painting.

You never know, your next house buddy might be right around the corner. Madi's words from earlier flutter across my eardrums.

Maybe fate's not done yet. Maybe it's waiting for its return investment.

"I know this might sound crazy," I push the words out before my head catches up with what I'm about to do. "But my roommate just moved out. I'm actually in the market for a new one."

She stares at me, those bright eyes round as she doesn't say a word. There's a silence that fills the empty space, tugging at my sanity and forcing me to swallow down the sudden embarrassment of rejection.

"I mean," I continue, clearing my throat as if that will actually get rid of the giant elephant I just planted into the room.

"Are you asking me to move in with you?" she blurts out, cutting me off and saving me from the lack of words I'm clearly fumbling to find.

"I just mean, you clearly need a place to live and I need a roommate. I'm barely ever there. I work most days and then sleep when I am home. You would pretty much have the place to yourself."

I can practically see the pros and cons list drifting in front of her eyes. She's thinking about it, and that very thought has my chest tightening.

"We barely know each other," she finally speaks, the sense of reason she's attempting to fuse into the situation deflates that ever-growing balloon within my ribcage.

Barely know each other.

She's not at all wrong. Except I like to think those few hours we spent after art class each week built something along the lines of knowing each other. Or maybe the vast passing of time has erased any semblance of knowing each other.

"You're right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have–"

"It's okay," she cuts me off. "It was honestly really sweet. I'm just not in the best...I just..."

"Hey," I cut her off this time, admiring the way her eyes have taken on a softer shade of blue as she searches for the right set of words. "It was just an idea."

"Thank you," she acknowledges, brushing back the few loose hairs and reaching to tighten the bun on her head. She's got her injured finger pointed in the air as she pulls the wound up pile tighter.

"No problem. So, uhm, the nurse will be back to get you cleaned up and ready for stitches. We'll have you out of here in no time."

"Trevor," she stops me. "Really. Thank you."

"Anytime." I just hope that there's validity in that statement. That maybe, by some playful event of miracles, I'll actually get to see her again. Because I don't think I'm done with the girl in front of me.