Victoire desperately wanted to run. Teddy had a way of drawing her in, drowning out the world around him in white noise, and she couldn’t have looked away if she tried. The world melted away into a blur of lights. A curious numbness and hypersensitivity flooded her body, pulling her every which way. There were no words for the heat in her skin. No poet could have adequately detailed the way the Earth felt ready to give way beneath her feet.

His hand was agonizingly familiar. How many times had she laced her fingers through his? She’d always needed to be close to him, had used him as an anchor for years. She’d been so terrified that he was a chain, couldn’t handle how desperately she loved him. Victoire could not have imagined anything more frightening than losing herself in him. She knew more of fear now. Nothing could be worse than watching a necrotizing parasite consume a patient. Nothing could be worse than letting a young family know their child hadn’t made it. She’d never sleep right again, not with the burns they couldn’t heal seared into the corners of her brain.

She followed him to the flooring, distantly aware of the wary eyes of her family. Was it always going to be like this? Was she ever going to be able to forget the taste of him, or the way her body fit against his? She had thought herself over him, as much as any girl could be over her first love [s]when she had abruptly ended things for reasons even she wasn’t sure she understood[/s]. Facing him now brought back the memories with the force of a stunning curse. 

Victoire dropped her gaze, determined not to let herself falter. She had done this. She had to live with the consequences. His hand spanned her waist. The callouses of his fingers felt like a brand. Victoire hated that she craved the heat in her skin, hated that two years later her pulse still quickened at his touch. It was strange to touch him so familiarly. Her free hand rested hesitantly on his shoulder. The act of dancing with him came naturally, even with the turmoil waging in her head. Turning her attention on the music, Victoire nearly missed his question. She flicked her eyes to meet his.

St. Mungo’s. Just the thought made her feel ill. She should be at work. The guilt was horrible. No matter how much she hated the hospital, she couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. Some days it was almost impossible to force herself to go home at the end of shift. It was as if the antiseptic walls had gotten inside of her. Victoire wasn’t certain where she ended and St. Mungo’s began, these days.

“I qualified last summer,” she murmured, forcing herself to look away. She debated on how to answer his question. “St. Mungos is…rewarding.”

It was the kindest thing she could think to say of the hospital, but it felt foul. She pursed her lips, swallowed her distaste for offwhite walls. She steeled herself, willed a polite smile to her face, tried to slip into a mask of poise. 

“What have you been up to?” She queried. Victoire was privately amazed that her voice sounded so steady, serene even, when it was an active effort to keep herself together.