It’s narrow, dim, and smells of cardboard and latex. Metalshelves line the walls, packed floor-to-ceiling with boxes of saline and gauze. There is barely enough room for two people to stand.
The door clicks shut, sealing us in.
Maxwell rips his mask off. His face is flushed. I’ve never seen him this unraveled. A strand of black hair has fallen loose, hanging over his forehead.
"You shoved me," Maxwell says. He is vibrating with rage. "In my own OR. You compromised the sterile field. You risked nerve damage on a hunch."
"It wasn't a hunch," I argue, stepping into his space. The adrenaline from the surgery hasn't faded; it’s spiking. My blood is boiling. "It was tactile anatomy. Something you’d know about if you ever took your head out of a textbook."
"I am the Chief of this department!" Maxwell shouts. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him raise his voice. It echoes in the small space. "You do not touch me! You do not override me!"
"I saved the kid!" I yell back. "While you were hesitating, looking for a pretty angle, he was bleeding out! I did what had to be done!"
"You are a chaotic, insubordinate?—"
"And you are a frozen, uptight coward!"
The word hangs in the air.
Maxwell goes still. His eyes darken. The blue turns to indigo.
"Coward?" he whispers.
He steps forward. He slams his hands against the shelving unit on either side of my head, boxing me in. A box of syringes rattles ominously.
"I hold human lives in my hands every day," Maxwell says, his voice low and dangerous. "I do not gamble with them. That is not cowardice. That is control."
He is breathing hard. I can feel his breath on my face. It smells of mint.
I should push him away. I should leave.
But the anger is morphing. It’s twisting into something else. The adrenaline is looking for an outlet, and fighting isn't enough anymore.
I look at his mouth. It’s sharp, severe, and currently parted in anger.
"Control," I mock, leaning in until our noses almost touch. "You’re so obsessed with it. What are you so afraid will happen if you lose it, Max?"
Maxwell stares at me. His gaze drops to my lips. Then down to my throat. Then back to my eyes. The pupils are blown wide.
"I am not afraid of you," he says.
"Then why are you shaking?"
He is. His hands, pressed against the metal shelves, are trembling.
Maxwell makes a sound—a frustrated, guttural growl that I feel in my own chest.
He crashes his mouth onto mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision.
It’s teeth and tongue and anger. He kisses like he operates—intense, demanding, and overwhelming.
I groan, grabbing his hips and hauling him closer. I slam him back against the opposite shelf. Bottles of saline wobble.
"Jax," he gasps against my mouth.
"Shut up," I growl.
