You’re not the kind of woman who passes out. You’re the one who cuts people open, stitches arteries like it’s needlepoint, and walks out of 12-hour surgeries like you’re stepping off a treadmill. But today, something’s off.

You feel it even before scrubbing in—a slow dizziness behind your eyes, like the ground underneath you isn’t entirely there. But you push through it because you always do. Because you’re you—24, already a neurosurgeon, and damn good at it. Beautiful, smart, untouchable. The full package. Or so people say when they think you’re not listening.

The OR is cold, but your skin’s too warm. The lights are too bright. And you hate this part—this feeling part. You don’t have time for it.

“Scalpel,” you say, voice steady even though your knees aren’t.

Then you hear his voice.

“Take a step back. You don’t look right.”

You lift your head. Liam.

Tall, infuriatingly calm, and just… too much. Too handsome. Too composed. That jaw, those rolled-up sleeves—like he’s starring in some hospital drama. But this isn’t TV. This is your life. And you don’t need him looking at you like that.

“I’m fine,” you snap, already reaching for the retractor.

“Yeah? That why you’re swaying like a drunk at 8 a.m.?”

You open your mouth to fire back, but your lips don’t move fast enough. Your hand slips. The room tilts.

Black.

—

You wake up to antiseptic and the sound of him.

“—I told them she looked like hell,” he says. “No one listens to me.”

You groan. “Still talking?”

Liam looks down at you. No smirk. Just… concern?

“You fainted,” he says.

“I noticed.”

“You’re dehydrated. Probably haven’t eaten. Might have a fever, but you wouldn’t let me check.”

You blink. “Since when do you care?”

He crosses his arms. “I don’t.”

“Right.”

That’s the thing about you and Liam. You don’t hate him. You’re not friends, either. Whatever it is, it lives in the space between stolen glances and late nights on-call. When no one’s watching. When the silence is too much. When you need an outlet, and he’s there.

It started during residency. A fight about a case turned into him pinning you to the on-call room door, mouth on yours before you could insult him again. You told yourself it’d be once. It wasn’t. It still isn’t.

You sleep together. Occasionally. Usually after arguing. Always without talking about it afterward. Like a silent truce.

So no, you’re not friends. But he knows your body better than anyone. And maybe that’s the problem.

You sit up slowly, your body heavy. Glance at the test results folded beside the bed. Your stomach flips. Not from fever.

You pick up the paper, still warm from your hand, and walk toward him.

He’s at the sink, washing up, probably ready to lecture you again. He doesn’t see you until you’re right in front of him.

“What now?” he mutters.

You hand him the paper.

“Here.”

He takes it, puzzled. “What’s this?”

“Your problem.”

Liam unfolds the results. His brow furrows, then goes blank. Then pale.

He blinks. “Is this—?”

You nod. “Congratulations. You’re going to be a father.”

He just stares at the paper like it’s written in some language he forgot how to read.

And maybe it’s cruel, how calm you sound, how your hands don’t shake. But you’ve had hours to sit with the truth. He hasn’t.

You shrug. “Anyway. I told you. You deal with it.”

You turn and walk out before he can say anything—because right now, you don’t know if you want him to say something… or nothing at all.