“Here.”
A sudden quiet, flat voice rises from the other side of the desk, interrupting my thoughts.
I lift my head, expecting to see either a patient, a distraught family member, or a nurse in need of help.
It’s neither of these things.
Standing before me is a man with eyes so dark that they mimic the abyss of the night sky, a daunting sight to gaze into if not for the subtle sparkle that twinkles just under his lashes.
Amid his warm, olive skin, his dark, angular brows knit together as a few strands of black hair slip free of his otherwise perfect hairline and kiss his forehead.
Dark, well-trimmed hair barely hides the sharp angle of his jawline that seems all the more apparent from this angle.
He’s holding out a paper cup for me with the logo of the local coffee cart stamped on the side.
I stare at him in utter silence. His expressionless face doesn’t falter, even when his lips part to speak once more. “It’s hot.”
“Oh!” Reaching up both hands, I take the hot drink from him before it scalds his fingers too much.
The warm aroma of coffee caresses my nose as he nods his head ever so slightly, then continues his path down the hallway with another cup of coffee clutched in his other hand.
Xander Thomas, the lead trauma surgeon and a drop-deadgorgeousman, a man who has only ever spoken to me regarding patient care, just brought me coffee.
What the fuck just happened?
2
XANDER
The fine line between life and death trembles perilously close, but at the last second I’m granted a second chance, and the life beneath my hands remains with me today.
A two-hour surgery turns into a five-hour one due to complications found inside them after I get them open and on the table, leaving my other scheduled surgeries to be unfortunately delayed or handed off to other surgeons.
It’s not uncommon, but each patient I work with who ends up under another surgeon’s blade comes with a little guilt.
I’m the one who talks to them, discusses their treatment, calms them, and often reassures them.
Every time someone else needs to step in, there’s a touch of guilt that rises through me as those people go under without the doctor they know by their side.
An unavoidable occurrence in this line of work, but it sits heavily, as always, on my shoulders as I update the surgical board and spot that Mrs. Wilikis, an elderly patient who gave memore chewy toffees than I knew what to do with, is already an hour into her surgery with another doctor.
“Xander.” Fred, the surgeon I spent the past five hours with, appears next to me with a yawn. “Good work in there.”
“It’s just work,” I reply quietly, scribbling down all the important details any other doctor would need if I’m unavailable for my patient. “I’m relieved we got it all.”
“That’s it?” Fred leans against the wall next to the electronic board I’m working on. “You cut her open for a perforated stomach and found a mass behind her kidney at the same time, did two in one, and all you can do is stand there and say it’s just work?”
Adjusting my glasses with one hand, I focus on the board. “She’s not out of the woods yet. It’s not right to celebrate.”
“But she’s not our problem anymore. She’s theirs.” He jerks his thumb back down the corridor toward the ward.
I follow his jerk with a glance and then pause when I see her.
Snow.
Earlier this morning, I heard her getting torn into by that awful woman, Jen.
She might be the head of the ward, but she doesn’t have a drop of compassion left over for her staff.
