Levin clapped me lightly on the shoulder. “Nice work, team.”
Team.
As staff filtered out, Anya moved to the charting station without waiting for me. Professional. Composed. Perfectly within guidelines.
I stayed behind for a moment longer than necessary, pretending to review orders while my chest tightened with something that had nothing to do with the case. The rest of the shift blurred into a controlled burn.
We passed each other in the hallway. Stood on opposite sides of patient beds. Spoke through intermediaries when we could have communicated with a glance.
Near the end of the night, exhaustion settled into my bones like wet cement. The prosthetic rubbed against tender skin, and my patience wore thin around the edges.
I watched Anya handle a complicated family conference without looking for reassurance from me once. Watched her advocate fiercely for a patient while Levin nodded in approval. Watched her exist independently — capable, undeniably her own clinician.
Pride twisted with something quieter. Something more vulnerable. Grief for the ease we had lost.
Shift change crept in with pale morning light bleeding through the ambulance bay doors. The chaos slowed to a dull hum. Staff filtered out in tired waves.
We finished charting in silence, seated at opposite ends of the same workstation. Close enough to feel her warmth. Far enough to remain invisible as a unit.
When the last nurse signed off and the hallway finally emptied, the tension in my chest cracked open.
We stood at thesame time.
Still didn’t touch.
Walked side by side toward the exit — professional distance intact, shoulders nearly brushing, exhaustion pressing down on both of us like gravity.
The automatic doors opened to the cool morning air.
No eyes. No witnesses.
She exhaled first — a shaky, quiet sound that carried the weight of twelve restrained hours.
Chapter 62
Anya
The doors hissed shut behind us, and the noise of the department vanished as if someone had flipped a switch inside my skull.
Silence.
Real silence — not the fake kind you get between monitor alarms or charting clicks — but the kind that presses against your ears until you remember you have a body again.
I made it to the car on autopilot. My shoulders ached. My brain felt hollowed out from being sharp and steady and unshakable for twelve straight hours. I tossed my bag into the backseat and leaned my forehead against the cool metal of the roof for one second longer than necessary.
I had not touched him all night.
Not a brush of fingers. Not a glance that lingered. Not a quiet check-in when he shifted his weight, and I knew his leg was bothering him. Every instinct I had learned — every piece of muscle memory built between us — had been forced into silence.
I climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door. The quiet inside the car wrapped around me like a blanket.
He got in a second later. The door closed. The world shrank. We sat there. Hands still. Eyes forward. Breathing like strangers. My chest felt too tight.
“I thought I was going to lose my mind,” I said finally, voice small and rough from exhaustion. “When you walked into Trauma One and didn’t even look at me.”
He turned his head slowly. “Of course I looked, honey,” he said. “Just… not the way I wanted to.”
I turned toward him, and the distance between us felt obscene — a physical ache that had been building all night without somewhere to go. His face looked older in the soft morning light. Tired. Controlled. Holding so much behind his eyes.
