#1st story: Mrs Lorne, the orthopedic doctor.

[brianbenedict]

Part 1:

The man in the elevator smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, his fingers tapping impatiently against his thigh. His scrubs were wrinkled, his sneakers scuffed from too many late shifts. Nobody looked twice at him—just another medical student, drowning in rotations. But his gaze lingered a second too long on the woman standing beside him, her arms crossed, her posture rigid.

Dr. Lorne didn't blink when the elevator lurched to a stop. She didn't flinch when the lights flickered. She just exhaled through her nose, like the universe was wasting her time. Her scrubs were crisp, her sneakers pristine, and the way her shoulder muscles flexed when she adjusted her stethoscope suggested she spent her lunch breaks somewhere far more punishing than the cafeteria.

The student cleared his throat. "You, uh, heading to surgery?" 
Her laugh was a single, sharp note. "Ortho. Where they actually fix things." 
He should've let it drop. But there was something about the way her wedding ring glinted under the fluorescents—too loose, like she'd lost weight and never bothered to resize it. "Your husband ever get jealous? All those hours with bodies younger than his?"

The elevator dinged. She stepped out first, hips swaying just enough to make him notice. "My husband," she said without turning around, "thinks protein powder is for 'roid heads." A pause. "You lift?"

He scrambled to match her stride, his pulse kicking up. "Yeah. When I'm not getting reamed by attendings."

She snorted, pushing through the orthopedic ward doors. "Bet you skip leg day."

The accusation stung—mostly because it was true. His arms were decent, but his calves were embarrassingly scrawny. Before he could defend himself, she tossed a chart at his chest. "Page 14. Tell me what's wrong with that tibia."

He fumbled with the paperwork, acutely aware of her watching him like a hawk circling prey. The X-ray showed a fracture spiraling up the bone like a shattered corkscrew. "Non-union," he said. "Patient probably skipped their PT."

Dr. Lorne plucked the chart back, her fingers brushing his. Calloused. Strong. The kind of hands that could crack ribs during CPR or pin a man to a mattress. "Smart mouth," she mused. "Shame your legs don't match."

The student opened his mouth—to protest, to ask her spot him sometime—but she was already striding down the hall, her scrubs pulling tight across her shoulders. He followed like a stray dog, memorizing the way her ponytail swung like a metronome.

The orthopedic ward smelled like iodine and desperation. Dr. Lorne didn't slow until they hit the residents' lounge, where she kicked open the door with the toe of her sneaker. Inside, a mini-fridge hummed next to a stack of muscle mags. She grabbed a shaker bottle off the counter and took a long pull, her throat working. "You want to get stronger?" she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Or just stare at my delts all day?"

His face burned. "Both," he admitted, because honesty seemed like the only currency she respected.

[brianbenedict]

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[brianbenedict]

Part 2:

Dr. Lorne's grin was all teeth—the kind that made him feel like she was deciding whether to mentor him or eat him alive. She set the shaker down with a deliberate thunk. "Gym's in the basement. Be there at 5 AM tomorrow.

The student blinked. "Five AM?" His voice cracked. He'd been surviving on four-hour naps between shifts, caffeine, and the occasional stolen granola bar from the nurses' station.

Dr. Lorne arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Ortho starts at six. You think I carved out this," she gestured at her shoulders, "sleeping in?" She tossed him a protein bar from the mini-fridge—peanut butter, the good kind, not the chalky hospital crap. "Eat that. You look like a strong wind would snap you in half."

The protein bar landed in his palm with a soft thud. He turned it over—organic, no artificial shit, the kind that cost more than his student loan ramen. His stomach growled before he could stop it. "You keep these around for weaklings like me?"

Dr. Lorne rolled her eyes and snatched the protein bar back before he could tear into it. "Wrong. I keep these around because interns forget to eat, then pass out in the OR." She lobbed it at his chest again, harder this time. "And you're not an intern yet. You're still just a meat sack with a pulse."

Dr. Lorne stepped closer, close enough that he caught the scent of her shampoo—something clinical with an undercurrent of citrus, like she washed her hair with surgical scrub and a twist of lemon. She tapped his chest with two fingers, right over his sternum, the pressure just shy of painful. "Five AM," she repeated, slower this time, her voice dropping into something that wasn't quite a whisper. "And if you're late?" Her thumb brushed the hollow of his throat, a mock-casual threat. "I'll assume you'd rather spend your mornings with Dr. Simmons in Pediatrics. He's got a *real* soft spot for nervous med students."

The student's throat went dry as Dr. Lorne's thumb lingered against his pulse point, her touch deceptively light—like she could press harder and find his heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird. Her breath smelled like mint and the protein shake she'd just downed, sharp and clean. "Five AM," she murmured, her voice sandpaper-rough, "and if you show up looking like you've been crying into your pre-workout?" She leaned in, close enough that her ponytail brushed his shoulder. "I'll make you hold my squat rack while I rep out your body weight."

The student swallowed hard, his pulse jumping under her thumb like a live wire. "Five AM," he echoed, his voice steadier than he felt. "I'll be there."

Dr. Lorne's fingers curled around the collar of his scrubs, her grip effortless—the kind of hold that could yank him forward or shove him back, depending on her mood. She didn't tighten her grasp, just let the fabric bunch in her fist, her knuckles brushing the base of his throat. "Five AM," she said again, her voice low, "means five AM. Not five-oh-one with excuses about the parking garage." Her other hand slid down to his bicep, squeezing once, assessing. The disappointment in her exhale was palpable. "Christ. You're all show, aren't you?"

"The show hasn't even started yet," he muttered, grabbing her bicep in retaliation—only to freeze as his fingers sank into muscle harder than the stainless steel trays in the OR. His grip slackened instantly, but not fast enough. Dr. Lorne's arm flexed under his touch, the ridge of her brachialis tendon rolling like cable under skin. A hot, stupid rush of blood flooded his face, then lower, traitorously lower, and he barely had time to angle his hips away before she noticed.

Dr. Lorne's gaze dropped lazily to his hips, then back up to his burning face. The corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smirk, but something far more dangerous. Without breaking eye contact, she flexed her arm again, slow and deliberate, the veins along her forearm rising like topography under her scrubs.

Dr. Lorne pulled away with a slow, deliberate motion, her fingers lingering on his collar just long enough to make his breath hitch. "Oh," she said, voice dropping into something darkly amused, "the show's already begun." She stepped back, rolling her shoulders like a fighter loosening up before the first round. The fluorescent lights caught the sweat-dampened strands of hair at her temples, the sharp angle of her jaw. "You just didn't realize you were on stage."

[jeffbeans]

A very promising start, please continue!

[brianbenedict]

Part 3:

The gym door clicked shut behind him with a sound like a bone snapping. 4:55 AM. The air smelled like rubber mats and iron, with a faint undercurrent of bleach from last night's cleaning crew. The student blinked against the dim fluorescents—and there she was.

Dr. Lorne stood facing the mirrors, a 40-pound dumbbell in each hand, arms curled tight. Her biceps swelled with each rep, veins mapping the dense muscle like rivers cutting through bedrock. The scrubs she'd traded for a black tank top clung to her back, the fabric stretching across shoulders that looked carved from marble. She didn't pause when the door shut, didn't glance over—just kept curling, the weights rising smooth and relentless as pistons.

The student swallowed hard, his throat clicking. Dr. Lorne's reflection in the mirror dwarfed his own—six-three in her sneakers, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the emergency exit sign behind her. The tank top clung to her chest like a second skin, the fabric stretching taut over pecs that could've been sculpted by some obsessive Renaissance artist. Sweat darkened the hollow between them, a damp V pointing down toward the ridges of her abs.

She finished her set with a controlled exhale, the dumbbells hitting the rubber mats with twin thuds. Still facing the mirror, she rolled her neck—a slow, deliberate motion that made the tendons stand out like bridge cables. "You're late," she said, voice rough from exertion.

The student glanced at his watch—4:56 AM—but the protest died in his throat when Dr. Lorne finally turned to face him. Sweat glistened along her collarbones, tracing the hard lines of her sternum before disappearing beneath the damp fabric of her tank top. Her chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, each inhale stretching the material tighter, the outline of her nipples pressing against the fabric like twin rivets. She smirked, as if she knew exactly where his eyes had landed. "Clock's ticking," she said, nodding toward the bench press. "You spot. I lift."

Dr. Lorne didn't wait for confirmation. She strode past him, her shoulder brushing his with deliberate friction, leaving a streak of heat against his skin. The scent of her sweat—salt and something faintly chemical, like pre-workout powder—clung to him as she loaded the barbell with plates, her fingers moving with the same precision she used in the OR. The student swallowed hard when she laid back on the bench, the tank top riding up just enough to reveal the sharp cut of her obliques, the sweat-drenched fabric clinging to every contour of her torso.