Page 78 of Broken Dream
“Angie,” Tabitha cuts through my thoughts. “Are you okay?”
I nod quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
But I know I’m not fine. Not even close.
I glance at Jason again, my pulse quickening. He’s helping Jennifer and Tobias, leaning over the table to guide Tobias’s hand with a calm, steady presence. His voice is low, clear, and even though he’s too far away for me to hear what he’s saying, I can almost feel the warmth of it curling in the pit of my stomach.
It’s been a week. Just seven days, and I still can’t stop thinking about him. About the way he showed up at my door unannounced, a bottle of wine in one hand and that hesitant grin on his face. He said he wanted to celebrate—some good news from a specialist about a possible surgery that might fix the nerve damage in his hand.
I poured the wine, trying to act casual, but I felt the tension simmering between us. The next minute we were fucking in my kitchen.
“Angie,” he’d murmured, his voice low and rough, his forehead resting against mine. “This can’t happen…”
But it already had.
And neither of us stopped it.
Now, standing in the bright and sterile lab, the memory of that night feels like a secret I’m carrying around, too heavy and too precious all at once. I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this, especially not here, not while I’m supposed to be focused on my first dissection. But every time I hear his voice or catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, the memory crashes over me again—his hands in my hair, the way he pulled me close, the quiet way he said my name like it meant something more.
“Angie.” Tabitha’s voice jolts me back to the present. She’s watching me, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure you’re okay? You haven’t made another cut yet.”
I nod, gripping the scalpel tighter. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I mumble.
Tabitha glances toward Jason. “Do you want me to ask him to come help us?”
“No!” I say too sharply, too fast.
Tabitha’s eyebrows shoot up.
I scramble to recover. “I mean, no, it’s fine. I can figure it out.”
The last thing I need is Jason standing next to me, close enough to catch his scent, close enough for him to see the flush rising in my cheeks, the way my hands won’t stop shaking. I’m already unraveling, and having him near would only make it worse.
Across the room, he looks up briefly. For a split second, our gazes meet, and my breath catches. His expression doesn’t change—calm, professional—but there’s something in his eyes, something flickering behind that composed exterior, that makes me wonder if he’s thinking about it too.
I drop my gaze back to the cadaver, my cheeks burning. My hand trembles as I position the scalpel.
It’s been a week, and I thought I could push it aside, bury it beneath work and focus and sheer willpower. But Jason is here, and so am I. And no matter how much I try to pretend nothing happened, I can’t stop remembering how it felt to cross that line—and how much I want to do it again.
I force the thought out of my mind and make a cut.
“Good,” Tabitha says softly, her voice steady and encouraging. “You’ve got it. Just follow the line.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and focus on deepening the incision, layer by layer. My hands are steadier now, but my thoughts are anything but. Jason’s presence is still like a current in the room, tugging at me even when I’m not looking at him. I can feel him moving from table to table, his voice calm, his attention focused on everyone else.
Everyone but me.
Which is exactly how it should be. Exactly how I need it to be.
But when I glance up, just for a moment, my resolve wavers. He’s at the far end of the room now, his hand resting lightly on the edge of a table as he speaks to Eli and Ralph. He looks so composed, so in control, like nothing could ever shake him. Like the Jason who was in my townhome, his hands gripping my waist, his mouth on mine, was a different man entirely.
I drop my gaze again, my pulse quickening. I focus on the cadaver, on the precise line I’m carving into its surface. This is what matters. This is why I’m here. Not Jason. Not the memory of his hands, his voice, his kiss.
Forget that this used to be a living human. It’s merely a shell now. A tool of science.
“Angie,” Tabitha says. “That’s great. Just keep going. You’re doing fine.”
I nod again, muttering a quiet “Thanks.”
