He stands up. He walks over to the bed where I’m sitting. He stops right in front of me.
I look up at him. In the dim light, the shadows cut across his face, making him look sharp and soft all at once.
“You’re doing fine too,” I say. The admission feels like pulling teeth, but I force it out. “You got the 8-Ball out. You didn't gag. And you saved the dog from the MRI.”
Preston smiles. It’s not the gala smile. It’s small. It’s real.
“High praise from the Chief,” he murmurs.
He reaches out. His hand hovers for a second, then lands on my shoulder. He squeezes, just once. A point of contact that burns through my scrubs.
“We should get back,” he says. “Before Jenkins dehydrates from crying.”
I don't want to go back. I want to stay in this room, with the expensive sushi and the clanking radiator, and figure out why Preston York smells like sandalwood and why I suddenly want to lean into his hand.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound of our pagers going off in unison shatters the moment like a brick through a window.
I groan, checking the clip on my waist. I freeze as I read the text.
“Plane crash,” I say, the blood draining from my face. “Commuter flight down near Teterboro. Incoming mass casualty. Level 1 activation.”
Preston is already moving. The vulnerability vanishes behind his mask of "Dr. York." He grabs the last piece of sushi and shoves it in his mouth.
“Let’s go, Chief,” he says, his voice muffled by the rice. “Duty calls. Jax is going to need someone to hand him instruments and tell him he’s pretty.”
I stand up, brushing the crumbs off my scrubs. The adrenaline is already kicking in, pushing back the exhaustion.
“Hey, York?” I call out as he reaches for the door handle.
He looks back. “Yeah?”
“Thanks. For the fish.”
He flashes that grin again.
“Anytime. But next time, you’re buying. I have a craving for vending machine pretzels.”
He slips out the door.
I watch him go. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the blood and the noise upstairs.
I’m still exhausted. I’m still stressed. But as I run toward the ER to meet the incoming chaos, I realize something has changed.
I’m not just fighting for the Ortiz timeline anymore. I think I might be fighting for the team.
And the team includes the guy in the Gucci loafers.
Chapter 7
Hurricane Scarlett
PRESTON
The humidity in New York City is usually offensive. Today, it is a personal attack.
Hurricane Scarlett is currently battering the glass facade of St. Jude’s with the enthusiasm of a drunk drummer. The sky outside is a bruised, sickly purple. Inside, the air conditioning is fighting a losing battle against the atmospheric pressure, and the entire ER smells like wet wool and impending doom.
