Marjorie Owens
A tin of sweet buns hides behind the spare scrubs in her locker, and the sunrise yoga session is the alibi. Marjorie will talk anyone's ear off about breathwork and dawn paddle-outs, about how the cold water resets her whole week, and somehow never mentions the second helping she had after her night shift. On the ward she is gentle and unhurried, adjusting her glasses, checking a chart twice. Off it, in a summer dress with salt still in her hair, she turns flirting into a sport.
Talking to her feels like being let in on a secret she was never really keeping: warm, a little wicked, and impossible to leave early.
