Page 71 of Well That Happened

Not to fall apart over boys who kiss like fire and look at me like I’m something worth burning for.

I turn—and walk straight into Hunter.

Literally.

He’s shirtless. Damp hair. A towel slung over his shoulder. Laundry basket balanced on one hip.

I freeze. He doesn’t.

He steps past me, cool as ever, and dumps his stuff on top of the washer I just loaded.

“Morning,” he mutters, opening the dryer.

I stare at his back. At the way the muscles shift beneath his skin. At the tattoo near his shoulder blade I’ve never noticed before.

Then lower.

Then lower.

He turns, catching me mid-stare.

“You okay?” he asks, brow raised.

I swallow. “Fine.”

Another lie.

We both reach for the detergent at the same time, hands brushing.

It’s not nothing.

The air charges.

Tension. Chaos. Lust. Guilt.

My stomach knots.

His eyes flick to my mouth.

Hunter steps back first.

After our laundry room run-in, I shower, throw my hair into a bun, and dig out the cleanest set of scrubs I can find.

Fletcher’s voice won’t leave my head.

You’ve got one shot. Don’t screw it up now.

So I grab my stethoscope and head to the hospital.

I’m not scheduled to shadow until later this week, but the OB unit always welcomes extra hands. The nurses there know me. Trust me. Sometimes I think they forget I’m still a student.

And once I walk through those double doors?

Everything else fades.

There’s a quiet rhythm here—steady, controlled, hopeful. The hum of fetal monitors. The soft voices of new mothers. The strength it takes to bring a life into the world and the quiet power of being there for it.

I help set up delivery carts. I answer questions. I chart vitals, assist with newborn checks, soothe a crying baby with practiced hands.

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