“Kitchen or clinic?" Alex asked, shouldering the front door with his hip and steering Sarah inside.
“Kitchen," she said. “Clinics have chandeliers."
“Fair point."
Emily had already laid out a clean towel and a bowl, as if anticipating triage. Mason ghosted to the threshold, gave a two-finger salute, and vanished to debrief his team. Mr. Knight's study door stood half-closed; a light burned within, the color of strategy.
Alex rolled up his sleeves. “Permit me the honor of pretending I'm a doctor."
“You're alarmingly good at that," Sarah said, easing onto a stool.
“Years of board meetings," he said. “You learn to stop the bleeding quickly." He washed his hands, then peeled the hotel tape with steady fingers. “Look at me, not at the arm."
She did. His face was all attention—no performa
