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The question surprises me.

“Besides poor judgment?”

“That was assumed.”

I swing my feet lightly above the step. “I liked that bodies had answers. Even when they were complicated, there was usually a reason. A pathway. A cause. Something to find.”

His gaze stays on me.

“What?” I ask.

“That sounds like you.”

I look down at the cotton ball. “You don’t know me that well.”

“No.”

But he says it like he disagrees with me but chooses not to argue with me.

“Why did you choose it?” I ask him.

“Surgery made sense.”

“That is the least romantic answer possible.”

“It’s the true one.”

“Of course it is.”

He pauses. “I liked that it required decision. You look, you decide, you move. Hesitation has a cost.”

I look at him then, really look. “That sounds like you,” I say.

His mouth moves.

Not a smile exactly. Something quieter.

“Probably.”

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then my phone buzzes in my bag, and I remember the rest of the world exists.

Dalton straightens. “Claire will bring the discharge sheet. Eat before you leave.”

“There’s the bossy again.”

“Yes.”

“I have class.”

“Eat first.”

“Are all your prescriptions this aggressive?”

“Only the important ones,” he says, and the fucker actually smirks.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Please find a second personality trait.”

He looks at me. “I’m a good teacher.”