Jax kicks the office door open. The smell of copper follows him in.
"See?" Jax says, sitting back down and grabbing the bag of chips. He crunches one loudly. "Meat and potatoes."
I set my box down on the dusty desk. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of dust, floor wax, and this infuriating, chaotic man.
"Dr. O'Connell," I say, pulling a container of disinfectant wipes from my box.
"Yeah, Dr. York?"
I snap the lid of the wipes open.
"Stay on your side of the room."
Chapter 2
The Golden Hour
Jax
Ihaven’t slept in thirty-six hours.
This isn’t a complaint. It’s a tactical assessment. In the Army, thirty-six hours was a warm-up. It was a Tuesday. You learn to function in the red zone, where the edges of your vision blur and the world narrows down to the only thing that matters: the bleeding body in front of you.
But right now, there is no bleeding body. There is only Dr. Maxwell York.
I’m leaning back in my squeaky chair, feet up on my desk, watching him. He’s been in our shared "office" for exactly twenty minutes, and he has already transformed his half of the room into a sterile zone.
He’s wiping down his desk. Again.
"You know," I say, tossing a stress ball shaped like a brain into the air and catching it. "The dust comes back. It’s part of the ecosystem. Like bacteria. Or interns."
Maxwell doesn't look up. He is currently arranging hispens. I’m not kidding—he’s actually lining them up by ink color. Blue, black, red. All perfectly parallel.
"Entropy is a choice, Dr. O’Connell," he says. His voice is smooth, cool, and annoying as hell. "I choose order."
"You choose to be a robot," I mutter, popping the last spicy chip into my mouth and crumpling the bag.
Maxwell flinches at the crinkle of the foil. He turns slowly, adjusting his rimless glasses. He looks like a model for a luxury watch advertisement—sleek, expensive, and ticking with hidden tension.
"Must you?" he asks, eyeing the empty bag on my desk like it’s radioactive waste.
"Must I eat? Yeah, Max. Metabolism. It’s a thing."
"Do not call me Max."
"Okay,Maxwell." I stand up, stretching. My back cracks, a sound like a pistol shot in the small room. I see his eyes flick to my exposed stomach where my scrub top lifts. He looks away instantly, staring at a water stain on the ceiling.
Interesting.
"I’m going for coffee," I announce. "You want some? I know the nurse in Peds keeps the good creamer hidden behind the vaccines."
"I drink espresso," he says, returning to his pens. "And I certainly do not consume dairy products stored near live viruses."
"Suit yourself, Princess."
I grab my coat—white, unbuttoned, stained at the hem—and head for the door.
But I never make it to the coffee.
