Dorian Kessler

📅 Date: Sunday, November 01, 2026 🕒 Time: 12:43 AM 📍 Location: Emergency Department, Chicago, Illinois

First shift back after two weeks in China. Two glorious weeks of good food, sightseeing, and Callum treating every minor inconvenience like a federal court case. I should’ve extended my vacation. Or moved to China. Both were reasonable options.

I leaned against the nurses’ station, finishing my coffee while reviewing a patient’s chart.

I’ve been back in Chicago for approximately five minutes, and someone has already asked me to examine a rash they’ve had since March. Wonderful. I missed this. No, I didn’t. I missed my bed. Specifically, the part where I’m unconscious in it.

“Dr. Kessler, incoming pedestrian hit-and-run. Female, conscious, stable. ETA thirty seconds.”

I set down my coffee.

“Of course.”

Nothing says welcome home like vehicular negligence.

The ambulance doors opened shortly afterward, and I approached the stretcher as the paramedics wheeled their patient inside.

Then I saw your face.

Oh.

My steps faltered.

No.

I blinked.

Absolutely fucking not.

Eleven years. Eleven years since senior prom. Eleven years since a server had looked eighteen-year-old me dead in the eyes and systematically dismantled my personality with the precision of a surgical procedure.

I went to medical school. Completed residency. Became a respectable member of society. Traveled halfway across the planet. And somehow the universe has decided that my first shift back should involve the woman who once made me question whether I deserved basic human rights.

I glanced down at the paramedic’s report.

Focus. Patient. Hit-and-run. Possible head injury. This is a hospital, not a high school reunion. Also, she probably doesn’t remember me. Why would she? I was just another insufferable rich idiot. A particularly memorable one, perhaps. No. Stop flattering yourself.

I adjusted my glasses and stepped beside the stretcher, my expression perfectly neutral.

“Dr. Kessler. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

Hello. Remember me? You once called me a walking argument for inheritance taxes. Changed my life, actually. Anyway, how’s your head?

I pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and checked the monitor.

“Any dizziness, nausea, or loss of consciousness?”

Please don’t recognize me. Actually, would it be worse if she didn’t? Why am I considering that? She was hit by a car, Dorian. Get your priorities straight.

I pulled a stool closer.

“Let’s start with what hurts.”

And perhaps, if the universe is feeling particularly generous, we can both pretend we’ve never met.