TO BE F*CKED BY MY RIVAL ATTENDING (6)
1137 Words
ALEXEI.
Seven days.
Seven days since Nikolai Volkov fingered me against a wall and made me beg.
Seven days since I realized I want him to f**k me.
Seven days of complete mental deterioration.
I’m in OR 2, removing a meningioma from a patient’s frontal lobe, and I can’t focus. My hands are steady—they’re always steady—but my mind keeps drifting.
To his fingers inside me. To how it felt. To how much I want more.
“Dr. Morozov?” My resident’s voice cuts through. “The dura?”
I blink. I’ve been staring at the exposed brain for god knows how long.
“Continue irrigation,” I say. “I’ll close the dura myself.”
I finish the surgery on autopilot. Perfect technique. Zero complications. But I’m not present. Hell, I haven’t been present all week.
In the scrub room after, I catch my reflection. And I look like s**t. Dark circles under my eyes because I haven’t been sleeping.
I can’t sleep without thinking about him.
My phone buzzes.
Chief Volgin: Emergency trauma incoming. Cardiac and neuro involvement. You and Dr. Volkov, OR 1, twenty minutes.
Perfect. f*****g perfect.
—•—
Nikolai is already in the OR when I arrive, reviewing scans with the trauma team.
“Morozov,” he says without looking up. “Patient is a thirty-two-year-old male. MVA. Cardiac contusion with possible tamponade. Also has a subdural hematoma that needs evacuation.”
“I can read scans, Volkov.”
“Can you? You’ve seemed distracted lately.”
Our eyes meet and the air charges immediately.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“If you say so.”
The patient arrives and we work. He handles the cardiac repair while I manage the craniotomy. We’re on opposite sides of the table but I’m hyperaware of every movement he makes. Every time we need to coordinate. Every moment our hands get close.
“Pressure’s dropping,” the anesthesiologist calls out.
“I see it,” Nikolai says. “Possible bleeding from the repair site. I need better visualization.”
“I’m almost done with the hematoma evacuation. Two minutes.”
“I don’t have two minutes. I need—”
“I said two minutes.” I work faster, removing the clot, controlling the bleeding. “Done. Your turn.”
He doesn’t thank me. Just refocuses on the heart, hands moving with that infuriating confidence.
We save the patient. Barely.
When we’re closing, the tension is suffocating.
In the scrub room after, we’re alone.
“Good work,” he says.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend this is normal. That everything is normal.”
I turn off the water, grip the edge of the sink. My jaw is so tight it hurts.
“I can’t focus,” I say flatly. “Can’t sleep. Can’t think. And it’s your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes. Your fault.” I turn to face him, and the anger I’ve been suppressing all week rises to the surface. “You did this. You—with your fingers and your mouth and that f*****g smug look on your face—”
“I didn’t do anything you didn’t want.”
“I know that!” The words come out sharper than intended. “That’s the problem. I wanted it. I still want it. And I hate that I want it.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I laugh bitterly. “Because it’s you. Because we’re competing for the same position. Because wanting you is inconvenient and distracting and—”
“And?”
“And I can’t stop.” I’m glaring at him now. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About—” I stop, jaw clenching.
“About what?”
“About you f*****g me.” The words come out like an accusation. “There. Happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I’m—” I stop, furious. “I’m asking. I’m asking you to f**k me. Satisfied?”
He’s quiet for a moment. And then he said, “No.”
The refusal hits like a slap. “What?”
“No. I’m not f*****g you.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Completely.”
“Why the f**k not?” Anger flares hot, “I’m standing here, giving you exactly what you—”
“What I what? What I wanted? I wanted honesty, Alexei. Not anger.”
“This is honest. I’m furious. I’m furious that I want this. That I can’t get you out of my head. Is that honest enough?”
“It’s a start. But it’s not enough.”
“Not enough?” I’m practically vibrating with frustration at this point. “What more do you want?”
“I want to know why. Why me specifically?”
“Because—” I stop. The answer is there but saying it feels like losing.
“Because why?” He challenges.
I glare at him. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not f*****g you just to scratch an itch. If we do this, it means something.”
“It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Yes, it does.” He steps closer. “And the fact that you’re arguing about it tells me you’re not ready.”
“Not ready?” My voice rises. “I’m standing here asking you—”
“You’re standing here angry and defensive and unable to admit what this actually is.”
“What is it then? Enlighten me.”
“You tell me. Why does it have to be me? What am I to you?”
I stare at him, furious that he’s making me say it. That he won’t just give me what I want without all this… this analysis.
“Forget it,” I say finally. “This was a mistake.”
“Alexei—”
“No. f**k this. f**k you.” I grab my jacket. “I don’t need this. I don’t need you.”
“Yes, you do. That’s the problem.”
I stop at the door. “What?”
“You want me. And you hate that you want me. But wanting and needing are different things.” His voice is quiet. “When you can admit which one it is, when you can tell me what I actually am to you… ask me again.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we stop. Right here. Go back to just being rivals.” He says. “Figure it out, Alexei. Then we’ll talk.”
I leave without another word.
Furious at him. Furious at myself.
But mostly furious that he’s f*****g right.
- Writer
