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But I’m not interested.

The truth is, I shouldn’t be here. I should be home with Maine, continuing our weird domestic dance where we orbit each other without ever acknowledging the gravitational pull. Where we share meals and ‘accidental’ touches and looks that last too long, all while pretending it’s still just about the sex.

Except it’s not just about the sex anymore.

Not since that night at the club. Not since I started finding his hoodies—the big, comfy ones—mysteriously appearing on my desk chair when I’m stressed about coursework. Not since he started texting me stupid memes during his shifts at Pizza Plus just to make me laugh.

“—completely unfair grading rubric,” Priya’s still going, gesturing wildly with her cosmo. “Right?”

“Totally,” I agree, having no idea what I’m agreeing to, but I hope it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass.

Sophie’s giving me the look that says she sees right through my bullshit but isn’t going to call me on it in public. She knows something’s shifted with Maine and me—she probably knew before I did—but the few times she’s tried to raise it, I’ve shot her down.

“Ladies.”

The voice cuts through our conversation like nails on a chalkboard and draws me out of my distracted introspection. A guy drops into one of the empty chairs at our table without invitation, his cologne so strong it makes my eyes water, and within a second my guard is up.

Everything about him screams trying too hard—the deliberately messy hair that probably took twenty minutes to style, the Patagonia vest over a button-down that’s unbuttonedone button too many, and the confidence that borders on delusion.

“I couldn’t help but notice you three beautiful women sitting here all alone,” he says, all sleaze.

Priya, ever the optimist when it comes to male attention, perks up slightly. Sophie’s expression goes carefully neutral. But both of them glance at me as I take a long sip of my vodka soda, because I’m usually the one who eviscerates unwanted creeps.

“I’m Brad,” he announces, like we asked. “Are you ladies freshmen?”

“Graduate program,” Sophie says politely. “Nursing.”

His eyes swing to me, and something predatory flickers in them when they do the slow crawl from my face to my chest and back up. He makes my skin crawl, like he’s looking at a ‘stripper’ instead of a medical professional, but it’s clear he’s got athingfor nurses…

“Bet you have to dress up real nice for the doctors,” he guffaws.

The rage that floods through me is instant and familiar. It tastes like every condescending comment my father ever made about my career choice, and like every family dinner where my siblings’ achievements in law and finance were celebrated while mine were dismissed.

Brad leans closer, his breath reeking of cheap beer and entitlement. “You know, you should practice on me… I’m pre-med.”

The words are forming on my tongue—something about how the only thing I’d be practicing on him would be my right hook—when suddenly Maine is there, pulling up a chair like he’s been part of our group all along. I blink twice, shocked, because I didn’t even know he was here, and now he’shere.

He doesn’t even acknowledge Brad’s existence, his blue eyes focused entirely on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. “Ladies,” he says.

I smile at him, because I know this will be good.

The Maine Show.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, his voice carrying that particular calm that I’ve learned means he’s anything but. “But we were just arguing about it at the bar—what’s the titration protocol for administering IV dopamine in a hypotensive patient who isn’t responding to fluid resuscitation?”

The question hangs in the air like a perfectly thrown punch. Brad’s mouth opens slightly, his forehead creasing in confusion. But I know exactly what Maine’s doing, and the warm rush of gratitude and amusement mixes into something Ireallydon’t want to name.

“Well,” I say, sitting up straighter, meeting Maine’s eyes with a smile that feels like conspiracy, “you’d start at two to five micrograms per kilogram per minute, but you have to consider the biphasic response. At low doses, you’re primarily hitting dopaminergic receptors, which can cause renal and mesenteric vasodilation.”

Maine nods, leaning forward with genuine interest. “Right, but at what point do you start seeing the beta-1 adrenergic effects?”

“Usually around five to ten mics per kig per minute,” I continue, warming to the topic despite myself, and deliberatelynotlooking at Brad. “That’s when you get the increased cardiac contractility and heart rate. But push past ten, especially up toward twenty, and you’re hitting alpha receptors hard.”

“Which causes?”

“Systemic vasoconstriction. It can be useful in severe shock, but you’re also looking at increased afterload and potential for arrhythmias. Plus, if you’re not careful with your IVsite, extravasation with high-dose dopamine can cause tissue necrosis.”

“Because of the alpha-mediated vasoconstriction,” Maine adds, and the fact that he actually knows this makes something flutter in my chest.