Chapter Text
The air in the apartment always smelled like something conflicting—burnt toast, essential oils, and cheap scented candles battling for dominance. Claire Browne stood barefoot in the cramped kitchen, cradling a chipped mug of lukewarm coffee, watching the chaos unfold around her.
“Dash, if you’re going to heat up those noodles again, at least take the damn fork out first!” Kayla’s voice cut sharply through the apartment, followed by the metallic clatter of said fork skidding across the counter.
Dash appeared in the doorway a second later, his curly hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted, holding the scalding container with a dishtowel. “It’s called fusion cooking, Kayla. Metal intensifies the flavor.”
“Do you want to burn this place down?” Kayla asked, stepping out of the hallway in leggings, a Stanford Law hoodie, and enough eyeliner to kill a man in court.
Claire smiled into her mug. “This is what I get for not taking the single dorm.”
“You’re welcome,” Kayla and Dash said in unison.
Their apartment wasn’t much—two bedrooms with creaky floors and a shoebox-sized living room, just off campus in San Jose. But after years of couch-hopping and uncertainty, it was stability.
Claire was 23, finally standing on the edge of the future she’d scraped and clawed her way toward. Med School. White coat on the horizon. A life she’d built herself.
Dash plopped onto the couch, propping his socked feet on the coffee table next to a molecular modeling kit. “Just saying, organic chem is the worst. If I flunk it, I’m switching to perfumery.”
“You won’t flunk,” Claire said, grabbing an apple from the fridge. “You’ve got a photographic memory and a God complex.”
Kayla tossed her bag on the chair. “You mean like Claire? She’s had the same highlighters since sophomore year and still manages to color-code her existential dread.”
Claire shrugged. “Whatever works.”
Truth was, she was exhausted. She’d spent the past six hours memorizing amino acid structures and re-reviewing anatomy for fun. She never allowed herself to relax—not really. If she stopped moving, she might start feeling. And she didn’t have time for that.
Her phone buzzed. A group text from her groups of friends at school: Hospital tour confirmed. Meet at St. Bonaventure, 9:00 a.m. sharp. Professional attire. No exceptions.
She read it three times. The nerves twisted instantly in her stomach.
“Tomorrow’s the big day?” Kayla asked, reading her expression.
Claire nodded. “St. Bonaventure tour. A few volunteer rotations are open for early placement. It’s competitive.”
Dash whistled. “That’s the one with the fancy surgical wing, right?”
“And the attendings who eat med students for breakfast,” Claire replied.
Kayla leaned in, studying her. “You want this.”
Claire looked up. “More than anything.”
Kayla smiled, not mockingly but with a kind of pride. “Then go get it.”
Claire nodded, biting into the apple. Sweet. Crisp. Real. She tucked the thought away with the thousands of others she kept cataloged—facts, formulas, fears.
Tomorrow, she’d walk into the hospital that might decide her future.
She had no idea it would also change everything else.