Black, two sugars.
Penny’s standing there, her scrubs rumpled, her hair in that messy twist she does when she’s been up since 5:00. She doesn’t say anything, just nudges the cup closer.
I take it, our fingersbrushing. “You remembered.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Behind her, Amy Patel pretends to be engrossed in a blood pressure cuff.
Later, I catch Penny in the supply closet, reaching for a box of gloves on the top shelf. She huffs, stretching—just not quite tall enough.
“Need a hand?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
She glares. “I’ve got it.”
“Clearly.”
She kicks my shin. I laugh, stepping behind her to grab the box. My chest brushes her back, just for a second. She stills.
The closet is too small, too warm.
“Here,” I murmur, handing it over.
She turns, the box pressed between us like a shield. “Thanks.”
Neither of us moves.
Then—
“Dr. Hogan?” A nurse pokes her head in. “Room 4’s ready for—oh.”
She blinks at us. “Oh, sorry.”
Penny bolts like a spooked deer.
I’m halfway through a sandwich when my phone buzzes.
Penny:Ground Rule #6: No almost-kissing where coworkers can see.
I grin.
Me:Define “almost.”
Penny:Richard.
Me:Fine. But only if you admit you liked it.
She doesn’t reply.
But ten minutes later, she walks past my office and—without breaking stride—flips me off.
I chuckle into my coffee.
Yeah. She liked it.
The following morning’s easy rhythm shatters when Darlene’s voice crackles over the intercom: “Dr. Hogan, you’ve got a… visitor.”
Something in her tone makes my pen freeze mid-signature.