The fluorescent bulb above the supply closet flickered once, stuttering like a nervous heartbeat, when Enzo’s shoulder blocked the doorframe.
Celine had stepped inside to count suture kits; the clipboard still dangled from her left hand, pen capped, inventory half-finished.
Enzo’s shadow slid over her first, tall, broad, his scrub top stretched tight across the chest she used to rest her cheek against back when they were interns who still believed in mercy. He shut the door with a deliberate bump of his hip. The click of the latch sounded surgical, precise, final.
His grin sliced sideways, showing the same canine that once bit through a lollipop stick in med school just to make her laugh. “Still the same little pushover, huh?”
The words rolled out slow, honey over broken glass. He po
