UNDER THE SKIN

🩺 Chapter Ten: Red Flags

The scalpel slipped.

Not dangerously. Not enough to harm. But enough for Solomon to notice.

Wanja’s hand had hesitated—just for a breath—before making the incision. Ozias saw it too. Her grip was firm, her posture perfect, but her mind wasn’t fully in the room.

Solomon didn’t say anything during the procedure. He simply watched. His silence was louder than any reprimand.

After surgery, Wanja scrubbed out in silence. Ozias followed her to the sink, his voice low.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “Fine.”

“You hesitated.”

“I corrected.”

He didn’t press. But he didn’t believe her either.

Later that afternoon, Solomon called her into his office.

The blinds were half-drawn. The air smelled of antiseptic and tension.

He gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

Wanja did, back straight, eyes steady.

“You’ve been off,” he said. “Not reckless. But distracted.”

“I’m managing.”

Solomon leaned forward. “You don’t manage. You lead. And when you stop leading, people start watching.”

Wanja didn’t flinch. “Is this about the incision?”

“It’s about the shift. The silence. The glances. The late arrivals. The rooftop walks.”

She met his gaze. “I’m still doing my job.”

“For now.”

He paused. “I don’t care about your personal life. But I care about this hospital. And I care about your legacy.”

Wanja’s jaw tightened. “Noted.”

Solomon leaned back. “Don’t make me choose between protecting you and replacing you.”

Ozias felt the tension before she told him.

They met on the rooftop again—this time under a gray sky, the wind sharp, the city restless.

Wanja didn’t speak at first. She just stood at the railing, her coat whipping around her.

“He’s watching,” she said finally.

Ozias stepped beside her. “Solomon?”

She nodded. “He sees everything. And now, he’s seeing me differently.”

Ozias exhaled. “Because of me.”

“Because of us.”

He turned to her. “Then maybe we step back.”

She looked at him, eyes fierce. “Is that what you want?”

“No,” he said. “But I don’t want to be the reason you fall.”

Wanja’s voice was quiet. “I’m already falling.”

They didn’t touch. They didn’t kiss. The rooftop was no longer a sanctuary. It was a pressure point.

Ozias stared at the skyline. “I didn’t expect this to get so deep.”

“You didn’t expect to care?”

“I didn’t expect to feel like I belong.”

Wanja turned to him. “You do.”

“But at what cost?”

She didn’t answer.

Downstairs, Nia watched them from the window of the staff lounge. She saw the tension in their posture, the distance in their silence.

She didn’t judge. She didn’t intervene.

But she knew something was shifting.

And she knew it wouldn’t stay quiet for long.

The next day, a patient case went sideways.

A post-op infection. A missed dosage. Nothing catastrophic—but enough for Solomon to raise an eyebrow.

Ozias took responsibility. Wanja backed him up.

But the damage was done.

Solomon called them both in.

“You’re good doctors,” he said. “But good isn’t enough when people are watching.”

Ozias nodded. “We’ll tighten up.”

Solomon looked at Wanja. “You need to decide what you’re protecting.”

She didn’t respond.

That night, Ozias sat alone in his apartment, the wine untouched, the music off.

He thought about her—about the way she’d looked at him on the rooftop, about the way her voice had cracked when she said, “I’m already falling.”

He didn’t want to be her weakness.

But he didn’t want to lose her either.

He stared at the ceiling, the shadows shifting with the headlights outside. Nairobi moved on, indifferent to his turmoil. The city didn’t pause for heartbreak. It pulsed through it.

Ozias reached for his phone twice. Didn’t call. Didn’t text.

He knew Wanja needed space. But space felt like distance. And distance felt like retreat.

He thought about her hands—steady in surgery, trembling only once when she let herself be held. He thought about her voice, the way it cracked when she admitted she was falling. And he thought about Solomon’s words: “Don’t make me choose between protecting you and replacing you.”

Ozias wasn’t naïve. He knew how hospitals worked. Reputation was currency. And Wanja had spent years building hers.

Now, he was the variable.

At the same time, Wanja sat in her office, the lights dimmed, her coat still on. She hadn’t moved in over an hour.

She stared at her reflection in the dark window—sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, a woman who had mastered control. Until now.

She thought about Ozias’s apartment. The warmth. The quiet. The way her body had responded not just to touch, but to trust.

She thought about Solomon’s warning. About the way Nia had looked at her lately—not with judgment, but with knowing.

And she thought about the cost.

She could protect her career.

Or she could protect her heart.

But she wasn’t sure she could do both.

The next morning, Nia found her in the break room, staring into a cup of untouched tea.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” Nia said.

“I didn’t.”

Nia sat beside her. “You want to talk?”

Wanja shook her head. “Not yet.”

Nia nodded. “Okay.”

She didn’t press. Just sat there, quiet, present.

After a long pause, Wanja whispered, “I think I’m in love with him.”

Nia didn’t flinch. “I know.”

Wanja looked at her. “How?”

“Because you stopped walking like you’re alone.”

Later that day, Ozias and Wanja crossed paths in the hallway. Their eyes met. No words. Just a flicker of recognition.

They were still in it.

But the walls were closing in.

And something had to give.