But she does like flowers.

I stop, turn around, and buy the daisies from her friend Lily’s shop. I haven’t met Lily before, but the brunette who helps me is sweet and outgoing, so I assume she must be Josie’s friend. And I hope she sorts out the situation with her dickhead boyfriend, because whoever he is, he needs to treat her better.

“The flowers are beautiful. Have a great evening,” I say, since the least I can do is be a considerate customer.

“You, too,” she says with a friendly wave.

I leave the store.

As I near Josie’s bakery, a whole squadron of nerves launches in my chest. My heart speeds up. This doesn’t just feel like nerves from the day. This feels like something else entirely. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Something that’s good, but terribly dangerous at the same damn time.

Gripping the bouquet tighter, I push open the yellow door to the Sunshine Bakery. Josie works alone, bending to take a huge slice of chocolate cake from the glass counter. She stands, sets it in a white bakery box, and hands it to the customer, a thin redhead wearing jeans and heels. The customer rubs her hands together. “I can’t wait. This is my favorite cake in all of New York City.”

Josie tilts her head and flashes the woman a wide, genuine smile. “I’m so happy to hear that. You deserve a slice today,” she says, then tells her the amount.

Josie’s hair is swept back in a pink-checked bandana, her bangs showing. Her T-shirt is orange, with the cheery sun logo of her store. Bangles slip and slide on her wrist. When the customer leaves, Josie’s eyes find mine, and they light up.

“Hey you!” she calls out and slinks around the counter to give me a hug. We don’t usually hug when we see each other, but maybe her arms are around me because I don’t stop by her work that often. Or maybe she senses that I need it.

“Hey,” I say, then I steal a quick inhale. Today she is cake. She is frosting. She is sugar and everything good in the world, and all those strange sensations descend on me once more as my heart beats weirdly faster.

When we separate, she arches an eyebrow. “What brings you to these environs, stranger? I’m about to close up.”

I clear my throat and thrust the flowers at her.

Her smile grows even bigger. She dips her nose to the petals and inhales. “I love them. My favorite.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to take them home. To make our place cheery,” she says as she heads to the door, locks it, and flips the sign to say “Closed.”

When she turns around to meet my gaze, I sink down at one of the tables and drag a hand through my hair.

“Uh-oh,” she says, joining me and setting down the bouquet. “Bad day at work?”

I nod.

She brings her chair even closer. “I’m guessing that means a real bad day, not a bad day like someone-at-the-hospital-ate-your-tuna-fish-sandwich-in-the-break-room-fridge bad day?”

“I hate tuna fish sandwiches.”

She laughs. “Me, too.” She takes a beat. “Tell me what happened.”

So I do.

And when I’m done, I feel a hell of a lot better, and lighter, and happier than I did after having drinks with David. No disrespect to the dude. He’s a cool cat.

But he’s not Josie, and she’s quickly become the person I want to talk to.

Scratch that. She’s been that person for a long time.

Especially since she’s a great listener, and she has access to much better medicine than I do some days. The strawberry shortcake cupcake I eat as we walk home can cure almost any sadness.

Later, I lie awake in bed.

Darkness has fallen over our home. Moonlight cuts through the blinds, casting stripes of light over the navy bedspread. Outside, a horn bleats and a garbage truck slogs along the avenue, lifting and dumping, lifting and dumping.

I flip to my side, the sheets slipping to my waist.

The green lights on the clock flash 11:55 at me.

But I can’t fall asleep easily like I usually do. I can’t blame the events at Mercy. I’ve had to let them go. Tomorrow is another day, and I need to be sharp for whatever comes my way. I’m not a superstitious man, but bad news comes in waves, so I need to be girded for a possible roulette wheel of destruction tomorrow.

So it’s not the patients—may Blake, and the gunshot guy, too, rest in peace—that I’m thinking of anymore.

It’s the woman on the other side of this wall. What’s keeping me up is the part of me that insisted on seeing her at the end of the day. The part that demanded I go to Sunshine Bakery, that I buy her flowers, that I tell her what happened.

I squeeze my eyes closed, imagining a patient is presenting with the same symptoms I have. What would I conclude?

I list them in my head—heart beating faster unexpectedly, nerves appearing incon-fucking-veniently, desire to see the woman after a shitty day.

When I get to the last one, I stop. On desire. Because there’s the embodiment of it in my doorway.

In shadows, she stands. She raises her hand and waves. “Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey.”

“You awake?”

“No. I’m sound asleep.”

She laughs and leans her shoulder against the doorframe. She’s in her usual asleep attire. Boy shorts, like the kind you’d find in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Material as thin as a spider web, and just as wispy. She pairs them with a loose pink scoop-neck shirt. No bra.

I’m so fucking screwed.