Chapter 3 Late Arrivals and First Impressions

Heaven Wilson's internal clock was as precise as a Swiss timepiece, which was why she knew exactly how many minutes and seconds Draven Callahan was late. One of the student from the group informed her that he would join. But he was late.

Ninety-three minutes. Forty-seven seconds. And counting.

She sat alone in Library Conference Room 3B, surrounded by the remnants of what had been a productive study session for the three other students who'd actually shown up on time. Her notes were organized in color-coded sections, her textbooks stacked with military precision, and her patience had officially expired at the ninety-minute mark.

Heaven began packing her materials with the systematic efficiency of a surgeon closing an incision. Each book was placed in its designated spot, each pen returned to its proper compartment. Order from chaos-it was how she survived medical school, her family, and the general unpredictability of human existence.

The morning sun streamed through the library windows, casting long shadows across the polished table. She'd been here since 5:45 AM, arriving early as she always did, prepared to guide struggling students through the labyrinth of pharmacology. Three had shown up. Three had learned something valuable. One had wasted her time by not showing up at all.

She should have known better. Draven Callahan's reputation preceded him like a warning label: Caution: Contents may cause academic disruption and excessive frivolity.

Heaven slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. She had rounds to prepare for, cases to review, and a family crisis that wouldn't resolve itself. She certainly didn't have time to wait for entitled first-years who treated commitments like suggestions.

The library's main floor was nearly empty, populated only by a few dedicated students and the librarian who'd been there since the Mesozoic Era. Heaven's footsteps echoed against the marble floors with the steady rhythm of someone who had places to be and important things to do.

She was three steps from the main entrance when disaster struck in the form of one very late, very breathless Draven Callahan.

The doors burst open with enough force to rattle the windows, and suddenly there he was-hair disheveled like he'd been running his fingers through it, scrubs slightly wrinkled, and carrying what appeared to be a coffee cup, a breakfast sandwich, and approximately six textbooks in a precarious balancing act that defied the laws of physics.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other across the library's entrance hall. Heaven took in his appearance with the clinical precision she applied to everything else: tall, probably six-two, with dark hair that seemed determined to fall across his forehead despite his obvious attempts to tame it. Brown eyes that held an odd combination of panic and hope. Strong jaw, straight nose, and the kind of smile that was currently forming on his lips despite the fact that he was clearly in deep trouble.

"Heaven Wilson," he said, and her name sounded different in his voice-warmer somehow, like he was tasting something unexpectedly sweet. "I am so incredibly, monumentally, catastrophically late."

Heaven's expression remained carefully neutral. "Yes. You are."

"I can explain," Draven said, still balancing his precarious load. "Actually, that's a lie. I can't explain in any way that makes me look like a functional human being. But I can offer increasingly creative excuses that might be entertaining enough to make up for the fact that I've apparently wasted your morning."

Despite herself, Heaven felt something flicker in her chest-curiosity, maybe, or possibly indigestion from the terrible break room coffee. "Ninety-three minutes and forty-seven seconds," she said.

"What?"

"You're ninety-three minutes and forty-seven seconds late. In medical terms, that's enough time for a routine appendectomy or approximately seventeen cardiac arrests."

Draven blinked. "You've been counting?"

"I count everything." Heaven adjusted her bag strap, preparing to leave. "Time, heartbeats, the number of students who actually show up when they say they will. It's called reliability, Mr. Callahan. Perhaps you've heard of it."

"Actually, no, I think I was absent that day too," Draven said, and then immediately looked horrified at his own words. "That was-that came out wrong. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Well, actually, that's also a lie. I am frequently this much of a disaster, but usually with more style and better timing."

Heaven stared at him for a long moment. In her four years of medical school, she'd encountered every type of student imaginable: the overachievers, the slackers, the ones who cracked under pressure, and the ones who sailed through on natural talent. But she'd never met someone who seemed so determinedly committed to self-sabotage while simultaneously trying to charm his way out of it.

"Why are you here, Mr. Callahan?" she asked.

"Because I need help," he said, and for the first time since he'd burst through the doors, his voice carried no trace of humor. "Because I'm drowning in pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, and everyone says you're the best tutor in the school. Because I know I've already made a terrible first impression, but I'm hoping you might give me a chance to make a slightly less terrible second impression."

Heaven considered this. Behind Draven, the morning sun created a halo effect that was probably accidental but seemed oddly appropriate. He looked like trouble wrapped in an apologetic smile, the kind of person her mother would have warned her about if her mother had ever warned her about anything other than disappointing her father.

"The study group ended an hour and a half ago," she said.

"I know." Draven shifted his weight, and one of his textbooks slipped from his precarious pile. Without thinking, Heaven stepped forward and caught it before it could hit the floor. Their fingers brushed for a moment-his were warm, slightly rough, with calluses that suggested he'd worked with his hands before medical school.

"Pathophysiology," she said, reading the book's spine. "Third edition."

"Is that... good or bad?"

"It means you're using an outdated textbook with incorrect or half information about several cardiac medications." Heaven handed the book back to him, careful not to touch his fingers again. "The fifth edition corrected those errors."

"Of course it did." Draven's laugh was rueful. "Story of my life-always one edition behind."

Something in his tone made Heaven pause. Beneath the charm and the self-deprecating humor, she heard something familiar: the sound of someone trying very hard to keep their head above water.

She checked her watch. Rounds didn't start for another two hours. She had case studies to review, but those could wait. And despite every instinct telling her to walk away from Draven Callahan and his infectious chaos, she found herself saying, "Only 30 minutes."

"What?"

"If you want help I can give you 30 minutes. We can review basic pharmacokinetics over something that won't dissolve your stomach lining."

Draven blinked, then his expression shifted into something that could only be described as pure, unadulterated gratitude mixed with panic. "Thirty minutes. Right. I can work with thirty minutes. That's... that's incredibly generous considering I just wasted an hour and a half of your morning."

"Don't make me regret it," Heaven said, already turning toward the library's study area. "And put that coffee down. You're going to spill it on something important."

"How do you know I'm going to spill it?"

Heaven glanced back at him with one perfectly arched eyebrow. "Because in the three minutes I've known you, you've already dropped one textbook and are currently balancing six others in a configuration that defies basic physics. The coffee is a disaster waiting to happen."

As if summoned by her words, Draven's precarious tower of books shifted slightly. He overcorrected, causing his coffee cup to wobble dangerously. Heaven watched in fascination as he performed what could only be described as an interpretive dance to save both his academic materials and his caffeine, involving a complicated series of hip swivels, arm windmills, and what appeared to be a modified yoga pose.

He succeeded-barely-but the performance left him slightly out of breath and his hair even more disheveled than before.

"That," Heaven said calmly, "was impressively chaotic."

"I prefer 'creatively catastrophic,'" Draven said, straightening his books with as much dignity as he could muster. "It's a family trait. My cousin once caused a three-car pileup trying to catch a falling ice cream cone. Successfully, I might add."

Despite herself, Heaven felt her lips twitch. "Your family sounds... eventful."

"That's one word for it." Something flickered across Draven's face-too quick to interpret, but Heaven caught it anyway. "So, where are we setting up for this academic intervention?"

Heaven led him to a corner table in the library's main study area, far enough from other students to avoid distractions but visible enough that their interaction remained appropriate. She set down her bag with precision, pulling out a single notebook and pen.

"Sit," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her. "And please, for the love of all that's holy, put those books down before you injure someone."

Draven carefully-very carefully-set his tower of textbooks on the table. One immediately slid toward the edge. Heaven caught it with reflexes that would have impressed a surgeon.

"How do you do that?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Move like that. Like you're always exactly where you need to be, when you need to be there."

Heaven paused in the act of organizing his books into a neat stack. The question was unexpectedly serious, and something in his tone suggested he genuinely wanted to know.

"Practice," she said finally. "Control is a learned skill, Mr. Callahan. Some of us just learned it earlier than others."

"And some of us," Draven said, settling into his chair, "are apparently still working on the basics."

There was no self-pity in his voice, just rueful acceptance. Heaven found herself studying his face more carefully-the tired lines around his eyes, the way his smile didn't quite reach them, the slight tension in his shoulders that spoke of someone carrying more weight than they let on.

"Alright," she said, opening her notebook to a fresh page. "Pharmacokinetics. What do you know?"