"See something you like?" Jax asks. His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an edge to it.
"I was examining the dermatological scarring," I lie smoothly. "You should have that checked. Scar tissue is prone to cellular mutation."
"It’s shrapnel, Max. Not melanoma."
He walks around his desk. He steps right over the blue tape line.
He stops next to my chair.
He is in my Zone.
My heart rate kicks up.60 bpm to 85 bpm.Unacceptable.
"You are crossing the line," I say, staring straight ahead at my monitor.
"I need to use the printer," Jax says. "It’s on your side."
"I will print it for you."
"I’ve got hands, Doc."
He leans over me.
He is overwhelmingly present. He smells of spicy food, yes, but underneath that is something else. Old spice, laundry detergent, and the heat of a body that runs too hot. His arm brushes my shoulder as he reaches for the paper tray.
I stop breathing.
His forearm is inches from my face. I can see the coordinates tattooed there now.31.55° N, 65.18° E.Afghanistan.
"Jax," I say. The name slips out. Not Dr. O’Connell. Jax.
He freezes. He doesn't pull back. He stays there, leaning over me, boxing me in against my glass desk.
"Yeah?" he murmurs.
I turn my head. Our faces are inches apart. I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. I can see the exhaustion—the dark purple bruises under his eyes that speak of nights spent awake. He looks wrecked. He looks dangerous.
"You..." I clear my throat, desperate to regain the upper hand. "You are out of paper."
Jax stares at me. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. The air in the room suddenly feels thick, heavy, like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks.
"Right," he whispers. "Paper."
The door bangs open.
"Dr. York! Dr. O'Connell!"
We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
Indira Singh, my resident, stands in the doorway, clutching a clipboard to her chest like a shield. She looks from me to Jax, her eyes wide.
"I... am I interrupting?" she squeaks.
"No," I say, smoothing my tie. My voice is an octave higher than usual. I force it down. "Not at all, Dr. Singh. Report."
"Um. The... the patient in 204. Mrs. Higgins. She’s complaining of chest pain."
"I’ll be right there," I say. I stand up, grabbing my tablet. I need to get out of this room. I need air. I need sterility.
