"Merry Christmas, Dr. York!" a nurse calls out, smiling brightly.
I do not smile back. I nod once. A curt, sharp gesture that cuts the interaction dead.
I get on the elevator. I press the button for the basement.
I have to go to the office. I have to get my things. Sterling has "graciously" allowed me to move to the Neuro floor starting tomorrow, now that I have proven my "loyalty."
The elevator doors open.
The Trauma floor is weirdly quiet. The calm before the storm.
I walk to Office 104.
I hesitate at the door. My hand hovers over the handle. I can hear music inside. Not AC/DC. Not heavy metal.
It’s the radio. Low. Playing a generic weather report.
I open the door.
Jax is there.
He is packing.
He is throwing things into a cardboard box with efficient, brutal movements. The stack of patient charts. The stress ball shaped like a brain. The bag of spicy chips.
He doesn't look up when I enter.
"You don't have to leave," I say. My voice sounds rusty.
Jax freezes. He is holding a stapler. He sets it down in the box.
"Sterling sent a memo," Jax says. He doesn't turn around. "Effective immediately, the shared office arrangement is terminated. You’re going back to the penthouse. I’m staying in the dungeon."
"Jax..."
"Don't," he warns.
He turns around.
He looks tired. The circles under his eyes are back, darker than before. He hasn't shaved. But the worst part is his eyes. They are flat. The spark is gone. The hazel is dull.
He looks at me like I’m a stranger. Or worse—like I’m an administrator.
"I’m just clearing my side out so the cleaners can sanitize it," Jax says. "I know how much you hate dust."
"I don't hate dust," I whisper.
"Could have fooled me."
He picks up the box. He walks toward the door.
He has to pass me.
He stops. We are inches apart. I can smell him—soap and sadness.
"I saved your license," I say. It’s a plea. A desperate attempt to make him understand the logic. "If I hadn't done it, they would have taken everything from you."
Jax looks at me.
