Avery:
I think my common sense has officially left the building.
You’re supposed to want romance. That’s what every book, every movie, every overly nosy aunt at Thanksgiving says. Flowers. Courtship. Dinner with cloth napkins and candles. Someone who holds your hand and asks about your five-year plan.
I wanted... greasy pizza. Ragged tees with bullet holes. Back-alley s*x pressed against the wall while my stethoscope swung wildly around my neck.
Something was loose in my f*****g head. Unhinged, even. And that something had dark eyes, tattoos like scripture, and hands that knew how to ruin and worship in the same breath.
I was mid-charting a patient from trauma when I heard it. Nora’s footsteps. She had that "I know something" bounce in her step that always meant bad news or gossip, or
