Such a deceptive word.
I rubbed my eyes briefly, reading through the observations again despite already knowing them. Blood pressure stabilising. Oxygenation improving. Drain output slowing. It should have reassured me. It didn’t.
“He’s a tough bastard.”
The voice made me glance up. Indie stood on the opposite side of the station, forearms resting against the counter, his cut hanging open over a dark hoodie. He looked exhausted too. The hard kind of exhausted that came from carrying responsibility for too many people at once.
“You should be home,” I murmured.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Same could be said for you, Doc.”
I glanced back at the screen. “He was lucky.”
“Magnet always is. That’s why we called him Magnet. No matter what happened, luck always found him, like he was a magnet for it,” Indie continued when I cocked my head to the side.
Indie’s gaze moved to the notes for a moment before settling back on me. Calm. Steady. But I didn’t miss the authority that rolled off him. It was nothing like my father. Not oppressive. Not sharp-edged and demanding obedience. Indie’s control felt different. Quiet. Certain. Like no matter how badthings got, he would stand in the middle of the chaos and force it back into line.
“But this time, luck had fuck all to do with it,” he answered quietly. “You saved him.”
“I…I…he’s not out of the woods yet.”
I didn’t quite know what to do with praise from men like them. Men, I’d spent most of my life being warned about. Men, I was increasingly beginning to understand weren’t monsters at all. Dangerous? If you harmed what was theirs. Violent? When it called for it. But not monsters.
My father would hate how easily that thought came now.
“You can see him if you want,” I offered after a moment. “He’s still sedated.”
Indie nodded once. “Suzy’s with Emmie downstairs getting a drink. Thought I’d check before she goes up.”
I moved away from the station, leading him through the quieter corridor towards ICU. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere nearby, a patient coughed violently behind a curtain.
“You always this calm?” Indie asked suddenly as we walked.
“No.”
That earned a soft huff of amusement from him.
“You hide it well, then.”
I shrugged slightly. “Patients need their doctors calm.”
“Aye,” he answered. “S’ppose they do.”
We reached the unit’s doors. I pushed through first, the familiar smell of antiseptic and machinery wrapping around me instantly. Magnet lay in the corner bed space, pale against white sheets, tubes and wires everywhere. Machines breathed for him in slow, rhythmic sighs.
Indie stood silently beside the bed for a long moment. Not touching him. Just there. Present.
“He’d hate this,” he muttered eventually.
I glanced sideways at him. “Most men like him do.”
That earned another faint smile. Sad this time. The doors to the unit opened again behind us, and quieter footsteps entered. Emmie first. Petite. Curvy. Light copper hair tied up messily. One hand wrapped protectively around a takeaway coffee while the other guided Suzy beside her.
Suzy looked wrecked. Eyes swollen red raw from crying. Fear still clinging to her like a second skin. And behind them, an older woman shuffled slowly into the ward, carrying a plastic shopping bag and wearing a thick knitted cardigan over a floral dress, like she’d walked out of somebody’s family kitchen rather than into intensive care.
“We don’t normally allow so many visitors at once,” I muttered to Indie. “Don’t stay too long, but I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”
The older woman’s sharp eyes landed on me immediately.
