"But?"
"But you are the only person in this entire hospital wholooks at a patient and sees a life, not a liability," Maxwell says. "Sterling looked at Mr. Henderson and saw a budget cut. You looked at him and saw a man."
He takes a sip of his coffee.
"I envy that," he admits. The words are barely a whisper. "I have spent my entire career perfecting the mechanics of saving lives. I think... somewhere along the way... I forgot why I was saving them."
The silence that follows isn't heavy. It’s thick, yeah, but it’s the good kind. The kind that wraps around you.
I look at him. Really look at him. I see the loneliness behind the glasses. I see the pressure of being the Perfect York Son.
"You didn't forget, Max," I say softly. "You just needed a reminder. Someone to kick a little dirt on your clean floor."
Maxwell huffs a laugh. "You have certainly provided the dirt."
He stands up. He walks to the window—or, the glass wall that looks out into the empty hallway.
"Go home, Jax," he says. He’s not looking at me. "The coffee will keep you awake for the drive. But you need to rest."
"I can't," I admit. The truth slips out before I can stop it. "My apartment... it’s too quiet."
Maxwell turns around. He leans against the glass. He studies me for a long moment.
"Then sleep here," he says.
"What?"
"The On-Call Room," he says. "Room 3B. It’s at the end of the hall. It has no windows. The ventilation system is loud. It is not quiet."
"You know the ventilation schedule of the On-Call rooms?"
"I know everything about this building," he says simply. "Go. Sleep. I will finish the Henderson paperwork. I will tell Sterling you filedit."
I stare at him. He’s offering to do my admin work. He’s offering me a sanctuary.
"Why?" I ask.
Maxwell pushes off the wall. He walks back to his desk and sits down, opening his laptop.
"Because," he says, typing his password. "I prefer you rested. You are less annoying when you are not hallucinating from sleep deprivation."
I grin. I can't help it.
"You’re a terrible liar, Dr. York."
"Go," he orders, pointing to the door.
I stand up. I take the mug with me.
"Hey, Max?"
He pauses his typing. "Yes?"
"The coffee really is good."
I walk to the door. I pause, looking back at him. The light from his laptop illuminates his sharp cheekbones, the serious set of his mouth. He looks like a fortress.
But tonight, he lowered the drawbridge.
