The team meeting dragged on. Between pizza boxes, scattered journals, and beer bottles, our audit proposal slowly took shape. Mark’s fingers flew over his MacBook, typing as we brainstormed. We needed 5000 temperature records from operating theatres—at least. The scale of it all was daunting, but it felt good to be focused on something tangible again.
I kept my distance from the alcohol. My body still hadn’t recovered from last night’s drunken blur and Jackson’s confusing tenderness. I nursed a Coke and tried to focus.
Chuck glanced at his watch. “Guys. It’s nearly five.”
Mark blinked. “s**t, I’m late. I’ll edit and email the draft proposal tonight. Let me know by Monday if you want changes.”
We started packing up. Chuck, predictably, had left a trail of chaos—boots by the chaise, lapt
