DAMIAN
Nine Months Later
The emergency departmentsmells of antiseptic and burnt coffee.
It’s midnight-adjacent, which means the waiting room is full of minor disasters and one looming major one. Flu symptoms. A fractured wrist. A kid with a split eyebrow. A man with indigestion who thinks it’s a heart attack. The rhythm of it settles into me the way it always does—the low hum of urgency, the choreography of controlled chaos.
This is where I belong.
I’m halfway through reviewing labs when I feel the shift behind me. Meron Firestone doesn’t walk into a room quietly. He occupies it. Even in scrubs, he carries himself like a man who expects deference.
It used to amuse me. Now it just irritates me.
“Baylock,” he says, voice clipped. “You’re late on a patient in three.”
“I’m not,” I reply without looking up. “Radiology’s backed up. I’ve already called them twice.”
He hums, unimpressed, leaning against the counter like he’s inspecting a subordinate instead of a colleague. “You always did like excuses.”
There was a time when that tone would’ve made me laugh. When we would’ve gone for drinks after a shift and dissected impossible cases until two in the morning. We were friends once. Best friends, depending on who you ask.
Before the slow realization that my marriage was ending in ways that didn’t feel accidental. Best friends, as it turns out, have a way of wedging themselves into places they’re not wanted.
I finally look at him. “Is there something you need?”
His mouth twitches like he’s considering saying something personal and then thinking better of it. Or worse of it. “I just think it’s interesting that you insisted on coming back to the ED after everything.”
“Everything,” I repeat evenly.
He shrugs. “Amber wonders how long it’ll be before you get tired of being here, since we’re engaged now.”
Engaged? Last I heard, they were just dating. Hooray. I sometimes wonder how long they were “finding” each other before my marriage ended.
“Congratulations.” The word comes out flatter than I intend.
His smile thins. “I’m worried about the department, Baylock. If you don’t get your act together, survive our engagement, it’ll reflect poorly on all of us.”
“Get my act together? I’m not the one who started nailing his co-worker’s wife.”
He pushes off the counter, straightening. “Triage just called. Pregnant woman. Active labor. Off you go.”
Not surprised he can’t admit to it. “We’re not equipped for L&D.”
“We’re equipped to manage emergencies. Or have you forgotten?”
Of course I haven’t. I just don’t want the case. Labor isn’t my specialty. Trauma is. Cardiac events. The sharp edge of catastrophe. Delivering babies feels…predictable. Almost routine. Soft.
He’s reassigning me to piss me off, and we both know it. “You can handle it,” he says mildly. “Unless you’d prefer something less…domestic.”
I meet his eyes. “I’ll take it.”
“Good.” He turns away before I can respond.
I watch him go, irritation simmering low and steady. He enjoys assigning me cases like this. Enjoys testing whether I’ll push back.
Patients don’t deserve ego battles, so I suck it up.
A nurse rushes up beside me. “Room six is yours. She’s at seven centimeters and not happy about it.”
