Page 27

LENA

Over the past few hours, the waiting room chair has become a torture device.

No matter how I shift, I can't find a comfortable position. At least there aren’t arms on it to dig into my thighs.

But my back aches, my neck is stiff, and the endless loop of daytime television is steadily eroding my sanity.

Yet these physical discomforts are nothing compared to the weight of waiting.

I've spent years on the other side of this equation—the professional behind the door, performing procedures while families wait in rooms exactly like this one.

But being the person waiting is a new experience altogether, and it's giving me a fresh perspective on how my patients' families must feel.

Alder paces the waiting area, checking his phone obsessively as if willing it to ring with news.

He's barely sat down since they took Gordie into surgery two hours ago.

I watch him move, the coiled tension in his shoulders, the way he periodically runs both hands through his hair until it stands at alarming angles.

"Sit down," I say for the third time. "You're making me dizzy."

He glances at me, then drops heavily into the chair beside mine. "What's taking so long? They said two hours. It's been two hours and seven minutes."

I place my hand on his knee, which is bouncing rapidly. "Surgeries don't run on exact timetables. Dr. Wei will come out when she's finished. Gordie's in good hands."

He covers my hand with his own, squeezing with more pressure than he probably realizes. "I know. I just—" He exhales sharply. "I hate not being able to do anything."

"Yeah," I say softly. "I get that."

And I do. The helplessness of waiting is a uniquely miserable feeling, especially for someone like Alder, who's accustomed to solving problems through sheer physical will.

Watching him navigate this vulnerability has revealed layers I hadn't fully appreciated before.

The professional athlete, the charming brother, the revenge conspirator—all these versions of Alder Stag are now joined by this worried dog dad who spent the night whispering reassurances to his pet between fitful stretches of sleep.

I find myself unexpectedly drawn to this version.

The realization hits me with startling clarity as I sit in this uncomfortable chair, surrounded by outdated magazines and the faint antiseptic smell: I care about this man.

Not as part of our revenge plan, not as my roommate or the owner of the dog I've grown attached to, but as himself—as Alder.

The thought should frighten me, but after the past twenty-four hours, it simply feels like acknowledging something that's been true for a while now.

"Mr. Stag?" Dr. Wei appears in the doorway, still wearing her surgical mask. "Gordon’s surgery went well. We removed the infected teeth and drained the abscess. He's in recovery now."

Alder springs to his feet, pulling me up with him since he's still holding my hand. "Can we see him?"

"In a few minutes. He's still coming out of anesthesia, but his vitals are stable, and his prognosis is excellent. "

The relief on Alder's face is so profound I can almost feel it radiating from him. He turns to me with a brilliant smile, making my chest ache.

"He's okay," he says as if I hadn't just heard the same news.

"He's okay," I confirm, returning his smile.

Dr. Wei discusses aftercare instructions, medication schedules, and follow-up appointments. I find myself instinctively taking mental notes, falling into my professional habit of cataloging medical information, while Alder is surprisingly attentive to every detail.

Just as Dr. Wei finishes, the waiting room door opens to reveal a lanky Black teenager with a backpack slung over one shoulder.

"What's good, A-Stag? How's my man Gordie?"

"LeMarcus." Alder's relief is palpable as he clasps the boy's hand in a complicated handshake. "Thanks for coming. Gordie just got out of surgery. He's going to be fine."

"That's what's up." LeMarcus nods, then turns curious eyes to me. "You must be the dentist. My ma said you moved in.”

I feel the heat creep into my cheeks. "Lena Sinclair. Nice to meet you."

"LeMarcus Washington, dog-whisperer." He grins, revealing a set of perfectly aligned teeth. "Braces," he explains, catching my professional assessment.

"I can tell," I say. "Beautiful occlusion."

LeMarcus laughs. "Yo, A-Stag, she really is a dentist. I thought maybe that was some kind of code."

Alder rolls his eyes. "Why would I need a code for her profession?"

"I dunno, man. You hockey dudes are weird."

While we wait to see Gordie, Alder goes over the plan with LeMarcus, who listens with surprising attentiveness for a college-aged kid. I observe their easy rapport, the way LeMarcus teases Alder without hesitation, and the obvious affection beneath their banter.

"So, I'll stay here with G-man til he’s released and then drive him home in your Escalade,” LeMarcus says, ticking points off on his fingers. "You two go to the wedding, get your fancy on, and I'll text updates so you don't stress the whole time."

“Message me Gordie pics every hour," Alder says seriously, and LeMarcus snorts.

"Every hour? Nah, that's excessive. How about every twenty minutes?"

They burst into laughter, and I smile despite my exhaustion.

There's something deeply endearing about seeing this side of Alder—the one who inspires such loyalty from his young neighbor, who worries about his rescue dog, and who notices when I'm uncomfortable at parties or self-conscious about fitting into a kayak.

When they finally walk us back to see Gordie—groggy, with a cone of shame and stitches in his gum—Alder kneels beside the crate, whispering to him through the grate.

The tenderness in his expression makes my throat tight.

For just a moment, I allow myself to indulge in the dangerous thought that Alder Stag might be someone I could actually fall for if circumstances were different.

If we weren't conspiring for revenge on our exes.

If he weren't technically my patient.

If I weren't planning to move out.

"We're going to make it,” I say, glancing at the dashboard clock as Alder drives us back to the townhouse in my Honda.

Alder clenches his jaw and weaves through traffic with the confident precision of someone who's spent a lifetime navigating Pittsburgh's labyrinthine roads. Still, his white knuckles on the steering wheel suggest he’s feeling anxious. “ I feel like no matter what I do today, I’m letting someone down.” He doesn’t look at me as he says this, swerving onto the 9 th Street bridge and veering toward our… his townhouse complex.

“Hey,” I try to sound soothing. “You are keeping Gordie safe. You responded immediately when you knew something was wrong. And you said your brother’s wedding is casual. We’ll pound some coffee, throw on our fancy clothes, and zoom back across the river.”

My words seem to calm him a bit, even as anxiety blooms in my chest at the thought of facing Alder's entire family—plus his teammates and coaches—after our emotionally charged night.

As if reading my mind, Alder says, "We should probably keep our hands to ourselves at the wedding. Uncle Tim will be watching, and he's already suspicious about the fraternization policy."

"That won't be a problem," I assure him, staring out the window at passing houses. "Coach and half the team will be there. I'll be on my best professional behavior."

"Right." Something in his tone makes me glance over, but his expression is unreadable as he navigates a turn. "Professional."

We lapse into silence, the unspoken implications of our conversation hovering between us. What are we, exactly? Roommates who shared a bed last night because of a crisis? Something more complicated that neither of us can define?

By the time we arrive at the townhouse, it's nearly 1:30, giving us just over two hours before the ceremony. We part awkwardly in the hallway, each heading to separate bathrooms to shower away the hospital smell and exhaustion.

"I, uh, put fresh towels in the guest bath yesterday," Alder says, running a hand through his hair. "And I peeked at your shampoo brand and stocked up when I was at the store.”

The fact that he noticed which products I prefer sends a slight tremor through me. "Thanks," I manage before escaping to the bathroom.

Under the hot spray of the shower, I try to sort through the tangle of emotions the past day has created.

Concern for Gordie. Sympathy for Alder. The strange intimacy of sharing his bed and the even stranger realization that I slept better next to him than I have in months.

The way his hand sought mine in the night, our fingers interlacing like it was the most natural thing in the world.

My thoughts slip to the kiss, to the press of his hard length against my soft belly.

Nope, I cannot allow myself to go there. Especially not today.

I emerge from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, padding down the hall to my room with damp hair and racing thoughts. My most immediate concern is what to wear to this wedding. In my hasty packing when leaving Brad's apartment, I didn't exactly prioritize dressy clothes.

I rifle through my drawers, growing increasingly frustrated as I discard option after option. Too casual. Too professional. Too summery. Too worn.

Underlying it all is the familiar anxiety: Will I look out of place among all these athletes and their conventionally attractive partners? Will people wonder what Alder is doing with someone who looks like me?

Brad's voice slithers into my mind: All anyone has to do is look at you to realize why I strayed.

I push the thought away fiercely. No. I refuse to let him in my head today.

Just as I'm about to give up and text Alder that I need to make an emergency shopping run, my hand brushes against something silky at the back of the closet.

I pull out a navy blue dress I'd forgotten I owned—a splurge from my final year of dental school that I wore exactly once before Brad commented that it was "a bit much" for my figure.

I hold it up skeptically. The fabric is beautiful, a rich midnight blue with a subtle shimmer. The neckline is more daring than I usually go for, and the cut is designed to emphasize curves rather than minimize them.

With a deep breath, I slip it on, steeling myself for disappointment. But when I turn to the mirror, I'm startled by my reflection. The dress fits—more than fits—it looks good. The color brings out the warmth in my skin, and the cut accentuates my waist while skimming over my hips.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I look at my body without immediately cataloging its flaws.

Instead, I see strength in my arms that paddled a kayak yesterday, compassion in the hands that helped comfort Gordie, and confidence in the set of my shoulders after navigating a crisis with calm professionalism.

I slide the dress back off so I can lotion up.

I blow-dry my hair into loose waves, apply makeup with more care than usual, and locate the low heels I'd tossed into my suitcase as an afterthought. The woman in the mirror looks like me, but somehow more—more confident, more present, more alive.

Looking at this version of myself, I can almost believe what Alder said on the riverbank yesterday: You're really beautiful, you know that?

The dress is laid out on the bed as I finish my makeup in my underwear and bra, still debating whether I'm truly brave enough to wear something so fitted to mingle with Alder's family and my colleagues.

I lean toward the mirror, applying mascara with careful precision when I hear the door open behind me.

"Lena, have you seen my?—"

Alder's voice cuts off abruptly. I freeze, the mascara wand still raised, and meet his eyes in the mirror.

He stands motionless in the doorway, one hand resting on the knob. His gaze travels slowly from my face down to my lace-trimmed bra, over the curve of my waist, lingering on my hips in the matching navy underwear, and then down my bare legs.

I should say something. Move. Cover myself. React in any way at all. But the look on his face has paralyzed me—a raw, unguarded hunger that sends heat cascading through my body.

When his eyes finally return to mine, their intensity steals my breath. There's no artifice in his face, no calculation—just pure, honest desire.

"Lena," he says, his voice rough and low. "You're so fucking sexy."