No one believes me. Sawyer is too busy checking out the women. Lincoln and Walker are in-depth talking about their kids. Roman couldn’t make it. Dean is watching me—this time, he was the one who waited outside the hospital to make sure I came.
I loosen my tie and exhale slowly. I still feel like I should be holding a chart. Like I’m forgetting something important.
That’s when I see her.
Not all at once. Not in a manner I can immediately explain.
She’s across the room, leaning toward the woman beside her, her posture relaxed in a way that doesn’t exist inside the hospital. She laughs at something that’s said, head tipping back slightly, and the sound cuts through the noise with unsettling clarity.
Her blonde hair is down. She has makeup on now. I haven’t seen her like this before.
It dawns on me.
I know her.
The realization hits quietly, without context or reason. Just a pull of recognition that sits low in my chest.
She turns her head, tucking her hair behind her ear, and a sharp pain twists through me. Familiar, but out of place. Like a memory hovering just out of reach.
I look away, hoping she didn’t see me.
“There’re some pretty ladies here tonight.” Sawyer turns to me and Dean. “Check those chicks out over there.”
Before I can follow his eyes, I already know who he’s talking about. A tight pull in the pit of my stomach takes hold and makes its way up to my chest. I don’t know what it is.
“Do we need to reduce every woman in this place to their looks?” I bite out as my hand clutches my glass of whiskey.
Dean and Sawyer look at each other before bursting into a fit of laughter. I roll my eyes, but it’s the first time a threat of a smirk hits me. I know—pot calling the kettle black.
“Dude,” Sawyer says, “you’re the older one. We learned this from you.”
He’s got me. Sort of. It’s a bit of an exaggeration.
“I’m two years older than you. Calm down. I’m not your dad. And maybe what you can learn is respect. We’re older now.”
“Are you gonna turn into the rest of the guys? I thought we were the three amigos now,” Dean interjects.
I roll my eyes. “I’m hardly getting on a knee and proposing. Trust me, that’ll never happen.”
When the conversation drifts to sports, I find my attention going back to Melissa.
I don’t mean to. I tell myself I won’t. But my eyes track her anyway, pulled by a force I can’t seem to shut down. She’s leaning closer to the woman beside her now, listening intently, nodding as if whatever’s being said matters. Her laugh is softer this time, more contained. Familiar.
That word again.
It bothers me more than it should.
At the hospital, everything about her feels restrained—professional, measured, predictable. Here, she looks looser somehow. More at ease. Like she belongs in this space.
I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the burn anchor me. This is nothing. It’s my brain misfiring after a long day. I’m tired. Overstimulated. That’s all.
Still, I don’t look away.
“She looks like trouble,” Sawyer says casually, following my line of sight.
I stiffen. “You don’t know anything about her.” The words come out sharper than I intended.
Sawyer arches a brow. “Damn, that was fast.”