Preston stops breathing. I stop breathing. The linen cart stops breathing.
“I—” Preston starts, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat. “I have the utmost professional respect for Dr. Silva.”
“Professional respect,” my mom repeats. She laughs, a short, dry sound. “Is that what we’re calling it? Is that why you bought him seventy dollars worth of sushi in the middle of thenight? Is that why you follow him around like a lost puppy with a stethoscope?”
Preston’s face turns a shade of red that clashes horribly with his blue scrubs. “The sushi was… a morale expense.”
My mom steps into his personal space. She reaches out and straightens his ID badge.
“Listen to me,mijo,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper that carries perfectly to my hiding spot. “Lucas is strong. He is smart. He worked hard to get where he is. He didn't have a paved road; he built the road himself, brick by brick.”
“I know,” Preston whispers.
“You are a York,” she continues. “You have money. You have power. You can leave this job tomorrow and go live on a yacht. Lucas cannot. This is his life. This is his heart.”
She pats his chest, right over his heart. It looks like a pat, but I know it feels like a threat.
“If you are playing a game,” she says, her eyes locking onto his. “If this is just a fun little rebellion against your brother… walk away. Go play somewhere else.”
Preston stares at her. The snark is gone. The deflection is gone.
“It’s not a game,” Preston says. His voice is quiet, but it doesn't waver. “I’m not playing, Rosa. I promise.”
My mom studies him. She searches his face for a long, agonizing ten seconds. It’s the same look she gives me when I say I’m ‘fine’ after a thirty-hour shift. She is an X-ray machine in sensible shoes.
Finally, she leans back. The tension breaks.
“Okay,” she says briskly. “We need you in Room 712. Mr. Bromley is back. He got the Magic 8-Ball stuck in the bed rail.”
Preston blinks, looking like he just survived a firing squad. “I… yes. Right away.”
“And Preston?”
He freezes. “Yes, Ma’am?”
She smiles. It’s a small, terrifying, but genuine smile. “Next time you order sushi, get me the spicy tuna. Lucas has no taste, but I do.”
She turns and walks away, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
I wait until she’s gone before I step out from behind the linen cart. Preston is still leaning against the medication cart, clutching his chest.
“I need a crash cart,” he wheezes. “I’m in V-fib. Restart my heart.”
I walk over to him, fighting the urge to laugh. “You handled that well.”
Preston whips his head toward me. “You were watching? You coward! You left me to die!”
“You don’t intervene with Mama Ortiz,” I explain, moving closer until I’m leaning against the counter right next to him. “It’s a force of nature. You just have to weather the storm.”
Preston exhales, running a hand through his hair. The movement rucks up his sleeve, exposing his wrist. I catch myself staring at it.
“She knows,” Preston murmurs, turning his body toward me. He doesn't step back. In fact, he shifts closer, invading my personal space. “She knows everything. She demanded spicy tuna.”
“That’s her seal of approval,” I say, keeping my voice low. “If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have asked for food.”
Preston looks at me. His blue eyes are dark, intense. “She thinks I’m playing a game.”
“Are you?” I ask.
