Page 5

Chapter five

Museum Incident

T he thing about Victorian medical displays is that they're surprisingly fragile for items originally designed to cut through bone. This becomes especially relevant when a group of hockey players decides to play hall sports with a nineteenth-century surgical kit.

I was cataloging the collection in the back room of Preston University's medical history museum when I heard the crash. It was the distinctive sound of history meeting hockey – a sound that, until this moment, I hadn't known I was terrified of hearing.

"Dude, Coach is going to kill us."

"Forget Coach – that scary dental girl is going to murder us with ancient tools."

Scary dental girl? Is that what they call me? Well, they're about to find out just how scary I can be.

I rounded the corner to find a scene that would have made my dental tools weep if they weren't currently safe in their humidity- controlled display cases. The Victorian medical practices exhibit – my exhibit, the one I'd spent three months curating – was in pieces. Standing in the middle of the carnage was Jack Morrison and half of Preston's hockey team, looking like children who'd broken their mother's favorite vase if the vase was an irreplaceable piece of medical history.

Don't notice how his practice jersey clings to his shoulders. Don't think about how he looks all flushed from whatever idiotic game they were playing. Focus on the DESTRUCTION OF HISTORY.

"What," I said in a voice that made several players actually step behind Jack, "did you do?"

"Sophie," Jack started, using my first name like it might defuse the bomb I'd become. "We can explain—"

"Explain?" My voice hit a pitch that probably hadn't been heard since Victorian hysteria was a recognized medical condition. "Explain how you turned priceless medical artifacts into a game of hallway hockey?"

"Actually," one of the players piped up, "we were playing indoor soccer—"

"Not helping, Mike," Jack cut him off.

I surveyed the damage, and my heart rate climbed with each new discovery. A displaced surgical kit from 1856. A toppled display of early anesthesia devices. And in the center of it all, my prized collection of dental tools, their careful organizational system now looking like a game of 52 pickup played with historical artifacts.

"Do you," I asked, picking up a bent dental probe that had survived two centuries only to meet Preston's hockey team, "have any idea what you've done?"

"We'll fix it," Jack said quickly. "Right, guys?"

The team nodded vigorously, except for one who looked like he might faint at the sight of the Victorian bone saw.

"You'll fix it?" I laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "These artifacts survived the Civil War, but fifteen minutes with Preston's hockey team—"

"It was my fault," Jack interrupted. "I'm team captain. I take full responsibility."

"Jack—" one of his teammates started.

"All of you, out," Jack ordered. "I'll handle this."

They fled like Victorian patients escaping a dentist's office, leaving me alone with Jack and two centuries of disrupted medical history.

"If you think you can charm your way out of this—"

"I don't." He was already carefully picking up pieces of the display. "But I can help fix it. Just tell me what to do."

Something in his voice made me pause. He looked genuinely contrite, which was an expression I hadn't known his face could make.

"First," I said, still angry but now in organizing mode, "we need to check for damage. Each piece needs to be cataloged and—"

"Documented for restoration," he finished. At my surprised look, he shrugged. "I do actually listen when you talk about preservation techniques."

He listens to me? No, focus. He probably has a good memory. This isn't helping because now I'm thinking about how he remembers things and how he looks when he's concentrating, and— ARTIFACTS, SOPHIE. FOCUS ON THE ARTIFACTS.

We worked in tense silence, cataloging each piece. Jack handled the artifacts with surprising care, his hands – which I'd seen throw punches and score goals – gentle with the delicate instruments.

"This is fascinating," he said after a while, examining a nineteenth-century amputation kit. "The development of surgical techniques during the Civil War revolutionized modern medicine."

I nearly dropped the dental forceps I was holding. "How do you know that?"

Please don't be secretly intelligent about medical history. I cannot handle you being both hot AND historically knowledgeable. There have to be limits.

"Contrary to popular belief, some of us can read." He carefully placed the kit in its display. "Besides, your blog post about Civil War medical innovations was interesting."

"You read my blog?"

He reads my blog? The pretentious academic blog where I rant about historical accuracy and proper preservation techniques? The one even my mother doesn't read?

"Rule 335," he reminded me with a ghost of his usual smirk. "No personal discussions."

We were working closer now, shoulders almost touching as we reassembled a display of early surgical tools. I could smell his cologne – something expensive that violated Rule 443 about distracting scents in academic settings.

"That goes there," I said, reaching for a bone saw at the same time he did. Our hands touched, and I jerked back like I'd been shocked.

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't realize handling medical history was so... electrifying."

"Rule 552," I muttered. "No inappropriate innuendos during academic activities."

Even if they're clever. Even if they make your stomach do that stupid flippy thing. Even if he's looking at you with those impossible eyes.

"Is this academic?" He was standing very close now, helping me straighten a particularly delicate display. "Seems more like detention."

"This is serious, Jack." But my anger had faded to something more complicated. "These artifacts matter."

"I know." He was quiet for a moment. "That's why I sent the team away. They wouldn't have understood how to handle this properly."

I looked at him – really looked at him. His practice jersey was rumpled, hair messy from running his hands through it, but his expression was focused, careful. The class clown was gone, replaced by someone who handled historical artifacts with unexpected reverence.

"Why did you come to the museum today?" I asked before I could stop myself.

He was silent for so long that I thought he wouldn't answer. "The team's been stressed about the playoffs. I thought, I don't know, but I thought they might find the history interesting. Like I do." He ran a hand through his hair. "Stupid idea, obviously."

Like I do. LIKE I DO? Since when does Jack Morrison find medical history interesting? This has to be another charm offensive. It has to be. Because if it's real...

"It wasn't stupid," I said softly. "Just... poorly executed."

"Story of my life." But he was almost smiling now. "Need help with that dental kit?"

We worked for another hour, carefully restoring each display. Jack revealed an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Civil War history that he tried to play off as "just something I picked up." By the time we finished, the exhibits looked better than before.

"Thanks," I said, watching him adjust the last display case. "For staying. For helping."

"Thanks for not murdering me with nineteenth-century medical instruments." He paused at the door. "Though I probably deserved it."

"There's still time."

He laughed – a real laugh, not his usual calculated one. "See you at tutoring?"

"If you're not too busy destroying other historical artifacts."

"Nah," he said with that infuriating smirk. "Destroying your rules is much more fun."

After he left, I stared at the restored displays, trying to process what had just happened. Jack Morrison, the bad boy of Preston University, spent his Friday night carefully reassembling Victorian medical exhibits while discussing Civil War history.

This is not how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to be careless, arrogant, and dismissive. Not careful. Not knowledgeable. Not looking at artifacts as if they matter. Not making my stomach flip every time he handles something with those stupidly gentle hands.

My dental tools seemed to watch me knowingly from their cases.

"Not a word," I told them. "This doesn't change anything."

But as I did my final checks, I couldn't help noticing he'd arranged everything perfectly, following all my preservation protocols. He'd even remembered about proper display angles for optimal historical appreciation.

I was going to need to add a rule about bad boys who paid attention to museum curation techniques. And maybe one about the way they looked with their sleeves rolled up, handling historical artifacts with unexpectedly gentle hands.

Just for academic purposes, of course.

And possibly another rule about practice jerseys that had no business looking that good on someone who could quote Civil War medical statistics.

Also, for academic purposes.

Not because I kept thinking about how he'd said "like I do" when talking about finding history interesting. Or how his hands had moved so carefully over the artifacts. Or how he'd stayed to help when he could have left.

I was in trouble.

The kind of trouble that no amount of rules could fix.

The kind of trouble that started with careful hands-on historical artifacts and ended with broken hearts in museum storage rooms.

The kind of trouble that looked really, really good in a practice jersey.

Focus, Sophie.

Right. Rules. Professionalism. Distance.

But maybe, just maybe, one small rule about appreciating historical competence wasn't completely out of line.

For academic purposes only, of course.