Chapter 21
Brielle’s POV
The shop specializes in scrubs and hospital attire, making it easy to find exactly what I need thanks to the nearby training hospital. I decide on ten sets-five skirts, five trousers. Practical, easy to clean, and all bright with heart-themed prints. Colorful clothes bring a bit of fun to the sterile environment, and I imagine my boss’s reaction, hoping they’ll take it as the lighthearted gesture it’s meant to be. Kids, for sure, will love it. Though my research role won’t bring me face-to-face with patients often, living cases will take priority, as they should. Surgery comes first; research is secondary. I’m proud of my skills in the operating room, especially working on children born with heart defects. It’s delicate, painstaking work-microsurgery on tiny hearts-and not everyone has the aptitude for it. Rellan knew I could handle it; he’s been urging me to join his hospital, where a list of children awaits surgeries that demand precision and courage. It’s not for the faint-hearted, pun fully intended. My small, steady hands were made for this. Saving children is rewarding, but losing them hurts deeply. Then again, losing any patient leaves a scar.
On my way home, the smell of a butcher shop pulls me inside. I grab fresh meat for the lasagna I plan to make tonight, then stop next door for handmade pasta, sauce, and garlic bread. The place surprises me with its variety, and when I spot some cheese, it feels like striking gold. I’ll definitely return— especially for the ready-to-heat meals that look homemade. No mass-produced factory stuff here. When work gets overwhelming, I’ll stock up the freezer with these hearty options. They rival anything I can make. I love cooking, often preparing and freezing extras for busy days, but the meals here might save me time without compromising quality.
Back home, I put away my scrubs, planning a quick wash tomorrow. For now, cooking takes center stage. Music plays, and as I chop, stir, and hum along, time flies. The garlic bread goes into the oven alongside the bubbling lasagna. I set the table, arrange the salad, and prep the coffee maker, ready at a button’s push. With everything done, I step onto my balcony and watch the city come alive under the evening sky. It’s just past six-thirty, the moon large and luminous, casting a glow over the streets below. The oven dings, but before I can remove the food, I step back inside and freeze. Tim’s already here.
He stands near the doorway, his eyes fixed on me in a way that stops me cold. Nobody’s looked at me like that before-not ever. Heat creeps into my cheeks.
“Hi, Tim,” I muster, walking up to plant a kiss on his cheek before heading to the kitchen. I turn off the oven and start the coffee pot.
“Something smells incredible,” he says, following me. His voice is rough, almost hoarse, and I wonder briefly if he’s coming down with a cold. Clearing his throat, he accepts the glass of water I pour and downs it in a single gulp, leaving me stunned.
“Thirsty much?” I ask, trying to break the spell.
“Starving,” he replies with a chuckle, immediately refilling his water glass.
“Want to help?” I tease, still doubting his self-confessed incompetence in the kitchen. Maybe he’s just angling for me to cook.
“Nah, you sit. I’ve got this.”
I retrieve the lasagna, set it on the table atop a heating mat, add the salad, unwrap the garlic bread,
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and take my seat opposite him. His reaction is instant-an appreciative inhale, exaggerated, almost
comical.
“Wow! This looks amazing,” he exclaims.
I can’t stop the giggle. It feels good-better than expected. Balen never appreciated meals I cooked. He’d find fault in everything, making me feel like nothing I did was ever right. But Tim’s enthusiasm erases those memories.
“Serve yourself,” I gesture, letting him slice the lasagna. He heaps a generous piece onto his plate, then mine. I add salad and two slices of garlic bread to mine, pushing the remaining bread his way.
He groans after his first bite, a sound of pure enjoyment that makes me smile. We eat, savoring the rich flavors. It’s not long before our plates are nearly empty.
“This is incredible,” Tim says. “Would you mind if I took some home? Maybe freeze it. I’m useless in the kitchen, and this would be perfect for busy days.” His sincerity surprises me.
“Of course! I actually made extra with that in mind. I’ll pack one up just for you.”
“Really? You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
After dinner, he helps clean up, and I divide the extra lasagnas into containers-some for him, some for me. With the kitchen flawless, we retreat to the balcony, watching city lights twinkle in the night. Music plays softly, filling the silence, but there’s no need for conversation. The quiet feels natural, comforting. We sit side by side, absorbing the calm.
Tim reaches for my hand, lifting it to his lips without even glancing at me. His touch is gentle, his thumb tracing soothing circles over my knuckles. The tactile rhythm lulls me, tempting sleep despite the city humming below us.
“Coffee?” I offer suddenly, needing a distraction-or maybe to stop myself from doing something reckless. Thoughts of him in my bed surface unbidden, vivid and tempting. He’d been unbelievable last time-enough to leave me smiling for days. I hadn’t been able to figure out if it was his skill or my emotions, but either way, the memory lingers, undeniable.
