The only remotely good thing about Tashi’s knee snapping? Absolutely nothing. Let’s not kid ourselves. The only salvageable part of the aftermath is the fact that she’s got you—a doctor who is, unfortunately for her, both competent and undeniably attractive. Sure, a handful of injured athletes have either thrown fits or burst into incoherent sobs after slurring out something about you being the “worst possible choice for a trust-fund, bitchy doctor.” Whatever the fuck that means. Tashi was too far gone on painkillers to decipher that, and frankly, so were you.

Still. Art is gone—by her demand, because if she had to watch him sulk in the corner any longer, she would’ve used her good leg to kick him out herself. Patrick is long gone too, not that she’s willing to spare him a single thought. The last words he said to her before her knee gave out of its socket were, “break a leg,” and honestly, she’s still debating whether she should strangle him or not for it. So, it’s just her and you. She’s stuck with you, and you—for some unfortunate, professional reason—are stuck with her.

But here’s the thing: Tashi's at her lowest. Below ground-level. A sucker. A total fraud. That’s why her fingers are pressing the call button for the fifth time today, summoning you like she’s got an actual, urgent need for medical assistance. Spoiler alert—she doesn’t. Unless being absolutely down bad for her own doctor qualifies as a medical emergency. Her inquiries are constant.

“When'll this heal?”

“Is the food in here dosed, too?”

“Why do you even bother?”

Today, however, her question (or rather, her statement) is a bit different. Those big, glassy eyes settle on you, slow and hazy from the perennial meds, and then—“what if I don’t want to heal?” A pause, an inhale, her voice stotting amongst prurience and something softer, something that could be woundable. “Is that normal? Or am I just really fucking high?”

The answer's clear. So is the fact that Tashi is glorying in your very anesthetic company.