"You’re here because you’re wired," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Because after a surgery like that—cracking a chest, lying to the Chief, saving a life that no one wanted to save—you can't just go home and watch Netflix. The adrenaline is still humming in your veins."
Maxwell stares at me. He doesn't deny it.
"And you?" he asks. "Is it the adrenaline?"
"Nah," I say, picking up my stress ball and squeezing it. "I just don't sleep much. It’s a... feature. Not a bug."
Maxwell looks at me. He doesn't give me the pity look. He doesn't ask about "trauma" or "PTSD" or any of the buzzwords the HR pamphlets love. He just nods, once. Acknowledging the fact.
"Coffee," he states.
"What?"
"You are vibrating," he points out. "If I do not administer a controlled dose of high-quality caffeine, you are going to drink the sludge from the breakroom and give yourself a gastric ulcer."
He turns to the small, sleek machine on his desk. I’ve made fun of it for a week. It looks like a spaceship.
"I thought you said my side was a biohazard," I tease. "You’re going to brew coffee in the Exclusion Zone?"
"I am making a humanitarian exception," he says, pressing a button.
The machine whirs. The smell hits me instantly—rich, dark, expensive espresso. It smells like comfort.
I watch his hands. They are steady now. Precise. He steams the milk with the focus of a bomb tech defusing an IED.
He walks over to the tape line. He holds out a ceramic mug. Not a paper cup. A real mug.
I roll my chair forward. I reach across the line.
Our fingers brush as I take the mug.
Zap.
Static electricity. We both flinch, but neither of us pulls away.
"Thanks," I murmur.
I take a sip. It’s incredible. It’s smooth, bitter, and hot. It warms my chest in a way the radiator never could.
"My god," I groan. "Okay. You win. The spaceship is superior."
Maxwell allows himself a tiny, smug smile. He takes his own cup—black, no sugar—and sits on the edge of his desk. He crosses his ankles.
"Why did you do it?" I ask. The question has been burning a hole in my tongue for six hours.
Maxwell looks down at his coffee. "Do what?"
"Lie to Sterling. You’re the Golden Boy. You’re the Rule Follower. You risked your reputation for a homeless junkie and a trauma surgeon you barely tolerate."
Maxwell runs a finger around the rim of his cup.
"I do notbarely tolerateyou," he says quietly.
My heart does a stupid, fluttery thing.
"No?"
"No," he says. He looks up. "You are chaotic. You are loud. You have absolutely no respect for sterility or protocol."
