Chapter 7: Weathering the Storms

The first cold snap of October comes early, seeping through old window glass and forcing Nawana to raid Jordan’s stash of hoodies. She likes the way they smell after a day—synthetic, sweat, the sour trace of hospital hand sanitizer that never quite washes away. They wear matching ones now, stretched and faded, curled on the red velvet couch under a thrift-store blanket that sheds lint in impossible colors.

A serial killer documentary blares on mute, the only light the TV glow and the string of fairy lights above the kitchen doorway. Jordan’s legs are thrown over the coffee table, toenails painted chipped navy, a half-finished problem set balanced on her knees. She pops open another can of La Croix and hands it to Nawana with a lopsided grin.

“You want some?” she asks.

“Not unless you spiked it,” Nawana says.

Jordan glances at the fridge, then back. “We still have vodka. If you want to get reckless.”

The word reckless hangs between them like a dare.

Nawana wraps both hands around the can and sips anyway. “I’ve got class in the morning,” she says. “Portfolio review. I’m supposed to sound professional.”

Jordan laughs, but it’s muted, distracted. “You are professional. All those contracts and NDAs—you’re basically a corporate shaman at this point.”

“Yeah, but I actually have to show up,” Nawana says. She can hear the thinness in her own voice, the crackle of nerves she can’t sand down. “It’s different from hiding in a Discord server.”

Jordan closes her laptop and slides closer, their thighs pressed together. She nuzzles in, face against Nawana’s neck, inhaling as if she’s drawing courage from the hollow there.

“If anyone gives you shit,” Jordan says, “tell them your girlfriend will stab them with a pipette.”

It’s so dumb it works. Nawana laughs, tension slipping off her shoulders. She presses her face into Jordan’s curls and breathes in the honest, animal warmth underneath the hospital scents.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re not nervous?” she asks.

Jordan considers, lips close enough to ghost Nawana’s earlobe. “I don’t think I’ve ever not been nervous. I ... push it down.”

“It’s easier for you,” Nawana says. “You’re, like, the queen of performing competence.”

Jordan’s hand finds her thigh, thumb drawing slow circles through the fabric. “It’s an act. My mother says the best surgeons are the ones who can act like nothing’s wrong while the patient’s bleeding out.”

“Nice,” Nawana says. “So you’re basically the sociopath of medicine.”

Jordan grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Only on days ending in ‘Y.’”

They fall into silence, not the lazy kind but the heavy, simmering sort where every touch feels like a test. Nawana picks at a loose thread on the blanket, unable to keep her mind from orbiting the same old gravitational center: Maybe you’re not enough. Not clever enough, not ambitious enough, not interesting enough to compete with the next crisis or the next Mia.

The word reckless echoes. Nawana leans over and kisses Jordan, soft and deliberate, as if mapping a new route with every press of her lips. Jordan melts into it, hands sliding under the hem of Nawana’s borrowed hoodie, fingers skimming the bare skin just above her waistband.

“Sure?” Jordan whispers, breath warming the spot behind Nawana’s ear.

“I want to,” Nawana says. “I just ... don’t want to fight again.”

Jordan freezes. Her lips hover just above Nawana’s collarbone, a question in the gap.