Another flags me down to confirm imaging results. I glance through the images, confirm what I already suspected, and giveinstructions that don’t need to be explained twice. The ease of it calms me. Knowing what to do and doing it well has always been where I feel most secure.
This is where I function best, where my mind stays quiet long enough to breathe. For a few minutes, the rest of my life recedes to the edges. Then my thoughts wander anyway.
Ethan’s laugh cuts into my thoughts, loud and unfiltered in the way only younger brothers get away with. It pulls me back to his birthday dinner and the ease of that night. I remember the way he leaned back in his chair, one arm hooked over the edge like he owned the space simply by existing in it. And the way Mom kept fussing with the food, asking if anyone needed more before anyone had even finished what was already on their plates.
I remember how easy it felt. Not performative or tense, just… open.
And Kiren.
The thought of him slips in so smoothly that it takes me a second to realize I’ve allowed it. I remember the way he stood in my mother’s kitchen at first, too still and aware of his size in a room built for comfort rather than authority. He hadn’t tried to impress anyone. He hadn’t dominated the space. He listened, watched, and offered to help without assuming he was needed, rolling up his sleeves to dry dishes beside Mom as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I remember the way Ethan sized him up with open suspicion and how Kiren met it without defensiveness. Just quietpresence and focused attention. When Ethan finally relaxed, and his posture eased, and his voice warmed, Kiren noticed before anyone else and adjusted without comment.
He fit in without effort. Not by shrinking himself, but by understanding the space. The table felt fuller with him there. Not louder, but fuller, rooted in a way that made it feel as though he had always belonged in that room and was only now being noticed.
I push the thought aside as I step into the next bay. I check the clock mounted above the nurses’ station. Time moves at a pace I can work with, not pushing, and not lagging. It leaves me room to think. I straighten, roll my shoulders once, and bring my attention back where it belongs.
Then my phone vibrates once, short and intentional. I don’t reach for it immediately. Personal phones stay silent during shifts unless there’s a reason. Emergencies route through the hospital. Family knows that. Ethan especially knows that as an EMT.
The vibration comes again. My fingers still against the edge of the counter. An instinctive, immediate tightening takes hold low in my chest. I glance down.
Ethan.
The edges of the room pull in a little. Ethan doesn’t call me at work without a reason. Only when he’s run out of other options. I answer immediately, already heading for the quieter stretch of hallway near the supply rooms.
“Ro,” he opens.
The sound of his voice confirms what my body has already recognized. He isn’t panicked or afraid. He’s alert, professional, holding himself together with care, and that recognition pulls my focus razor-thin in a way fear never could.
“What’s going on?” I ask, keeping my voice calm even while my pulse begins to climb.
“We’ve been rerouted,” he replies. Road noise hums beneath his words. The ambulance engine vibrates through the line, a constant, low presence beneath his voice. “Dispatch changed the location last minute.”
“That happens,” I respond automatically, though my body rejects the reassurance. My grip tightens around the phone. “Why are you calling me?”
There’s a fractional pause, just long enough to matter.
“It doesn’t feel right,” he continues. “Scene layout’s off. No bystanders. No police presence like dispatch promised. And the address doesn’t match the call details.”
Cold understanding creeps up my spine, threading between my shoulders.
“Where are you now?” I ask.
“Just pulled up,” he answers. “Warehouse district near Ridley. We’re staged a few yards out.”
“Ethan,” I say carefully, slowing my steps. “Listen to me. If anything looks wrong, you do not?—”
“I know,” he cuts in firmly. “That’s why I called. Can you pull anything on dispatch? I want eyes on this.”
I stop walking.
“I don’t have direct access from here. But I can call charge and?—”
Another voice enters the background, not his partner’s. Male, calm, and close enough that there’s no need to raise his voice.
“Ethan?” I say, louder now.
Someone near him murmurs something I can’t make out. The tone is conversational and unhurried, but it sets my nerves on edge.
