victoria doesn’t know if she’s overthinking this.

it’s been nine months since she started at ptmc. nine months since she became an ms4, and you took her under her wing. it was amazing.

you — a third year resident taking her under her wing. you taught her things, helped her get over her fear of the hard cases, helped her build her confidence. taught her where to find things and taught her how to help the ones who slipped through the crack.

but not just in work. out of work you become fast friends. you text and call and bond over your love of reality tv. victoria’s certainly never had any older woman she felt this comfortable with, her mom was always too strict and focused on getting victoria to succeed than paying attention to her interests and hobbies away from it all.

but then things start to happen at work.

victoria finds herself staring at you. the fringe. the curls. the glasses. your freckles. the way you pat her back after a hard case, squeezing her shoulders and murmuring a quick ”good job” or “well done”.

and victoria finds herself loving the praise. especially from you.

and then more things happen — stuff that makes victoria wonder if she’s going crazy. your hands linger when passing charts back and forth. your eyes meeting across the room. you making sure victoria eats and sleeps, makes sure she’s learning as well as taking care of herself. you graze hands and you send… ‘flirtatious’ messages.

the mentoring she receives from you is career-helping. you guide her hands to cut and you correct her when she’s wrong and praise when she’s right.

and god does she loves the praise.

right now? she’s stitching someone up. a man who’s recovering from an overdose. you’re standing over her, humming and nodding in approval when she does something wrong. she’s on edge, in a good way. her fingers tingle and she feels all warm.

“just go a bit deeper next stitch.” you say in her ear.

she keeps going.

“no, no.” i say softly. “ninety degrees.”

she doesn’t do it. she knows how to do it. maybe she just likes how you sound when you teach her. you stand behind her, leaning over her. your chest presses against her back. you put your hand over hers, guiding the stitches.

her heart pounds as your hands move together. “like this?” she asks, voice hoarse.