Page 10

Chapter ten

Museum After Hours

T here's something uniquely unsettling about medical museums after dark. The glass displays catch moonlight in strange ways, making nineteenth-century surgical tools look even more ominous than usual. This is why, at 11:47 PM on a Friday night, I was definitely not thinking about how Jack Morrison made even the creepiest Victorian medical devices look somehow attractive by association. I was cataloging medical equipment when Kendra, Jack’s ex, appeared in the doorway, looking oddly out of place among the Victorian displays.

"Quite the collection," she said, running a manicured finger along a display case. "Almost as impressive as your collection of Jack's study sessions. Tell me, does the dean know how many late-night 'tutorials' you've been having?"

"We maintain strict academic focus."

"Of course you do." Her smile was sharp as a scalpel. "Just like I did when I tutored him in French last year. Until he got bored. Jack has a pattern, you see. The chase excites him. The conquest... well." She shrugged delicately. "Let's just say I've never seen him stick around once he gets what he wants."

"Jack's not-"

"The same with me? That's what I thought. What Ashley thought last spring. And Emma, the semester before that." She picked up a dental tool, examining it in the light. "But by all means, convince yourself you're different. It makes the eventual crash so much more entertaining."

She placed the tool back with surgical precision, each click of her heels on the museum floor like a countdown as she left. The air felt colder in her wake, and the medical displays suddenly became more ominous than usual.

Don't let her get to you. Don't think about other girls in the library with Jack. Don't imagine him looking at them the way he looks at you when you're explaining Victorian medical practices. Don't wonder if they also noticed how his eyes light up when he's truly interested in something. Don't-

But the images came anyway: Jack studying French with Kendra, probably in this same museum. Jack discussing poetry with Emma, maybe even sitting in our usual spot in the library. Jack listening to Sarah's music, looking at her with that intense focus I thought was just for me.

How many other girls had he shown his reading glasses to? How many had discovered his secret intelligence? How many had thought they were special for seeing past the bad boy facade?

I turned back to my cataloging, but the dental tools offered no comfort. Each one seemed to reflect Kendra's words: temporary, entertaining, disposable. Just another phase in Jack Morrison's evolving reputation.

But he's different with me , a stubborn voice in my head insisted. He shows up at midnight to help organize exhibits. He remembers how I categorize medical texts. He...

He probably remembered how they organized things, too.

The worst part wasn't Kendra's perfect smile or calculated revelations. It was the seed of doubt she'd planted - the idea that maybe this wasn't real at all. Maybe I was just the latest in a series of roles Jack tried on and discarded. The museum girl phase. The redemption arc. The scholar discovering his hidden depths.

Maybe next semester, there'd be another girl standing in this same spot, convinced she was different too.

I gripped the catalog cards tighter, trying to focus on dates and descriptions instead of the hollow feeling in my chest. But each carefully organized note reminded me of Jack's color-coded system, of late nights, discussing literature, of all the little moments I'd thought were just ours.

When Jack showed up twenty minutes later with coffee and that soft smile that made my heart forget how to beat properly, I also tried not to wonder how many others had seen that smile.

I tried not to wonder if they'd all felt this special, this sure, this real.

I tried not to wonder when it would all dissolve like old paper in water, leaving nothing but carefully cataloged memories and the bitter taste of being just another phase in Jack Morrison's story.

But mostly, I tried not to wonder why, despite everything Kendra said, despite all the evidence of history repeating itself, I still wanted to believe we were different.

Maybe that's what all the others thought, too.

"You know," Jack said, carefully lifting a display of bone saws, "most people don't spend their Friday nights reorganizing medical exhibits."

"Most people don't spend their Friday nights helping them, especially after a concussion." I glanced at him over a stack of catalog cards. "You sure you're up for this?"

"Mild concussion!" Jack retorted. "It's been almost a week of rest; I'm good."

"The Bride of Frankenstein?" he asked, nodding toward my laptop, where the classic horror movie played quietly in the background. "Didn't take you for a horror fan."

"The medical science is fascinating, even if it was completely inaccurate." I didn't mention that old horror movies were my comfort watch, my way of making real medical history seem less daunting. "Plus, it's technically research since we're updating the 'Science in Popular Culture' display."

"Right. Research." But he was smiling as he arranged scalpels by date. "Nothing to do with the fact that you've mouthed every line so far."

I threw a cotton glove at him. He caught it with annoying grace.

"Careful," he said, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Wouldn't want to damage any priceless artifacts with your violence."

"They survived the Victorian era. They can survive you."

"Like you survived that blood pressure demonstration today?"

I flushed. Earlier, during a school tour, I'd nearly fainted while demonstrating a Victorian blood pressure cuff. Jack, who'd been walking past the museum after practice, had caught me before I hit the ground.

"I was just dizzy from the historical significance," I said, trying to redirect the conversation away from how he'd held me upright, one hand on my waist, the other cupping my elbow until the world stopped spinning.

"Right." His voice had softened, watching me over the rim of his coffee cup. "Nothing to do with your aversion to actual medical practice?"

How does he know about that? Who told him about my family's expectations? About the fainting incidents in pre-med?

"That's not..." I focused on arranging tongue depressors by size. "It's complicated."

"Try me."

Maybe it was the late hour or the way moonlight made everything seem slightly unreal, but I found myself talking.

"Three generations of doctors," I said, not looking at him. "The Chen Family Medical Legacy. Every dinner conversation, every family gathering, it's all about medicine. And I can't... I mean, I love medical history. The development of techniques, the evolution of understanding. But actual medical practice?" I gestured to the blood pressure cuff. "I can't even demonstrate equipment without getting lightheaded."

"So you found your own way to be part of it," he said. Not judging, just understanding. "Through history."

"What about you?" I asked, wanting to shift the focus. "The Morrison Hockey Legacy?"

He was quiet for a long time, and it felt like the emotional score of a movie filled the silence.

"Dad had my whole life planned before I could walk," he finally said. "NHL career, just like him. Never asked if I wanted it. Never noticed I spent more time in the library than the rink." He picked up a surgical manual, handling it with familiar care. "But I was good at hockey, so that's all that mattered."

Oh. That's why he hides his intelligence. That's why he maintains the dumb jock facade. That's why—

"Is that why you maintain the bad boy image? So if you fail, at least it's on your terms?"

His laugh was bitter. "Pretty sure that violates several rules about personal discussions."

"It's after midnight," I said softly. "Different rules apply."

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and something in his expression made my heart race.

"Different rules, huh?" He moved closer, setting down the manual. "Any specific ones I should know about?"

Don't notice how the moonlight catches his cheekbones. Don't think about how intimate this feels, sharing secrets in the dark. Don't imagine what would happen if you just stepped closer—

"I haven't made rules for moonlit museum conversations."

"Seems like an oversight." He was too close now, close enough that I could see the fading bruise from his hockey injury. "Maybe we should make some."

"Like what?"

"Like how to handle it when the scary dental tool girl turns out to be not so scary after all."

"I am too scary," I protested, but my voice was embarrassingly breathless. "I have an entire collection of Victorian bone saws."

"Terrifying," he agreed, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "Almost as terrifying as admitting this isn't just tutoring anymore."

On the laptop, the Bride of Frankenstein screamed her iconic scream. Neither of us noticed.

"Jack," I whispered, and his name felt different in the dark. "What are we doing?"

"Breaking expectations," he murmured, leaning closer. "Creating chaos. Probably ruining both our carefully maintained reputations."

Say something academic. Quote Victorian medical texts. Do anything except stand here drowning in the way he looks at you like you're a rare first edition he's afraid to touch.

"Good," I said, and I meant it.

His lips were inches from mine when fluorescent lights suddenly flooded the room. We jumped apart like guilty Victorian teenagers caught reading questionable novels.

"Morning, cleaning crew," called a cheerful voice. "Oh! Sorry, didn't know anyone was still—" The janitor stopped, taking in the scene. "Wait, aren't you Jack Morrison? The hockey player?"

"Just helping with exhibit preparation," Jack said smoothly, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. "Very educational."

"At midnight?"

"History never sleeps," I said weakly.

Or apparently, it doesn't require professional boundaries either. What happened to distance? To propriety? To not almost kissing your mentee among nineteenth-century medical displays?

The janitor looked skeptical but shrugged. "Well, I need to clean in here, so..."

We gathered our things in awkward silence. Jack helped me pack up the last few displays, his hands occasionally brushing mine in ways that felt deliberate.

Outside, the night was cool and clear. His motorcycle gleamed under streetlights.

"Need a ride?" he asked, holding out his helmet.

I should have said no. Should have remembered all the reasons this was complicated. Should have maintained professional distance.

Say no. Remember the mentoring contract. Remember your reputation. Remember—oh god, he's doing that thing with his eyes again.

Instead, I took the helmet.

"Just this once," I said, climbing on behind him. "For purely historical purposes."

"Of course." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Wouldn't want to ruin your scary dental tool girl reputation."

As we rode through empty streets, my arms around his waist and my head resting against his back, I realized something: maybe some things were more important than maintaining reputations.

Like the way Jack Morrison read medical texts just to understand my world better.

Like how he showed up at midnight because Dex mentioned I was working late.

Like how he looked at me in the moonlight, past all the careful walls we'd both built.

The night air was cool, but Jack was warm against me, solid and natural and nothing like the reputation he wore like armor. His leather jacket smelled like old text and possibility, and I found myself holding on tighter than strictly necessary for safety.

This isn't how the story was supposed to go, I thought as we curved through campus. The bad boy wasn't supposed to quote medical history. The uptight academic wasn't supposed to enjoy motorcycle rides. We weren't supposed to find ourselves here, in this strange space between who we pretend to be and who we are.

But maybe that's exactly where we needed to be.

In the space between expectations and truth.

In the quiet moments after midnight, when masks slip, and walls fall.

In the gentle way he handled both rare books and my carefully constructed defenses.

As his motorcycle carried us through the sleeping campus, I realized I didn't want to be anywhere else.

He parked by my apartment, but neither of us moved immediately. The engine ticked as it cooled, marking seconds that felt heavier than they should.

"Sophie," he said, still facing forward. "About what almost happened—"

Tell him it was a mistake. It was just the moonlight, horror movies, and too much coffee. That you can't be the girl who falls for her mentee, no matter how perfectly he fits into every space you didn't know was empty.

"I know," I said quickly. "Late night, strange atmosphere. We should probably—"

"I was going to say I've been wanting to do that for weeks."

He turned then, and even in the dim streetlight, I could see the vulnerability in his expression. This was just Jack looking at me like I was a first edition, and he was afraid of damaging it.

"Since that first day in the museum," he continued. "When you spent twenty minutes explaining the evolution of dental practices, and you were so passionate about it that you didn't notice you were still wearing those ridiculous safety goggles."

"The goggles were mandatory," I managed.

"They were adorable." His hand found mine in the dark. "Like how you mouth along to old horror movies. Or how you organize everything by date and subject, even your coffee cups. Or how you look at old medical books like they're love letters."

"Jack—"

"I know all the reasons this is complicated," he said softly. "The mentoring contract. Your academic reputation. My hockey career. But maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe some things are worth complicating."

The streetlight above us flickered, casting shadows that made everything feel dreamlike. A cat wandered past, pausing to judge our life choices before continuing its nightly rounds.

"I'm not good at complicated," I whispered. "I like order. Categories. Clear boundaries."

"And I'm chaos on a motorcycle." His thumb traced patterns on my palm. "But you know what? I think you like that more than you're willing to admit."

He's right. God help me, he's right. I like the way he disrupts my careful systems. The way he makes me question my categories. The way he—

"You organize books by theme and historical context," I said suddenly. "Your coffee order is more complex than most Victorian medical procedures. You color-code your study notes."

"Your point?"

"Maybe you're not as chaotic as you pretend to be." I looked at our joined hands. "Maybe I'm not as ordered as I pretend to be."

He laughed softly. "Look at us, disrupting our own stereotypes."

"Terrible for our reputations."

"Absolutely scandalous."

A moment passed, filled with the sound of distant traffic and possibilities.

"Stay," I said suddenly. "Not for... I mean, just... The museum opening is tomorrow. I have a whole section on Victorian medical innovations that needs reviewing."

Smooth, Sophie. Very smooth. Nothing says 'I might be falling for you' like Victorian medical history.

But Jack's smile was worth every awkward word.

"Only if you let me add my thoughts on the parallel development of sports medicine."

"Deal."

And somehow, that's how Jack Morrison ended up on my couch at 2 AM, glasses perched on his nose, arguing passionately about the evolution of athletic rehabilitation while I pretended not to notice how right he looked there.

Like a missing piece of my carefully organized world.

Like chaos finding its own kind of order.

Like something I didn't want to live without.

The morning would bring complications. Questions. Consequences.

But for now, there was just this: moonlight and medical history and the sound of Jack's voice making the past come alive in ways my textbooks never could.

And for once, I didn't need to categorize it, just live it.