I leaned back over the patient and slid the laryngoscope in. Bloody. Swollen. Tricky in that way that demanded precision and patience, not force. My world narrowed to the airway, to the familiar calm that always came when I was exactly where I was supposed to be. “I’ve got cords,” I said.
“I know,” Desmond replied mildly, and I couldhearthe smile in it. “You get that look when you’re about to show off.”
I flicked my eyes up at him, exaggeratedly offended even as my hands stayed steady. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” he said, lifting a gloved finger and gesturing vaguely at my face. “Right there. That little crease between your brows.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. Quick. Childish. Entirely inappropriate.
His eyes darkened instantly, something warm and unmistakably pleased flickering there before he masked it. “Careful,” he murmured, voice pitched just low enough that it felt like it was meant only for me. “We’re surrounded by witnesses.”
“Then stop flirting with me during a trauma,” I shot back, advancing the tube with a smooth, controlled motion.
“I’m supervising my emergency department,” he said smoothly. “If it sounds like flirting, Doctor Volkov, that’s on you.”
“In,” I said.
“Confirmed,” respiratory called.
Desmond leaned in then, close enough that his shoulder brushedmine — deliberate, unnecessary, grounding. He lowered his voice once more. “Absolutely textbook,” he said. “God, you look good when you’re focused.”
My pulse jumped so hard I nearly laughed, the sound bubbling dangerously close to the surface.
“Vitals?” I asked, voice perfectly even, professional to the bone.
“Improving,” a nurse replied. “Nice save.”
Desmond straightened, authority snapping back into place like a jacket he wore easily. He nodded once. “Of course they are.”
As I sutured, I felt his attention on me again — not staring, not invasive. Assessing. Appreciative in a way that felt like hands I wasn’t allowed to feel, like a touch that existed only in implication. It made my skin hum. “Don’t rush,” he said.
“I’m not,” I replied without looking up. “You just like watching me work.”
A beat. Long enough to notice. Long enough to feel. “I won’t deny that,” he said.
I glanced up then, needle poised. He met my eyes — and winked.
Actually winked.
My breath hitched traitorously. “You’re distracting me.”
“And you’re blushing,” he said softly, just for me. “Which is adorable, but very unprofessional.”
I leaned closer to the patient, pretending to focus harder than I already was. “If you distract me and I miss a stitch, that’s on you.”
He stepped closer again, threading his words right under my ribs. “I havecompletefaith in your hands, Doctor Volkov.”
A nurse cleared her throat pointedly. We both froze. Then Desmond smiled — polite, charming, harmless enough to pass inspection. “How are we doing?”
“Stable,” she said, eyes flicking between us. “But you two are… intense.”
I didn’t look up. “It’s all him,” I said. “He’s a walking HR violation.”
As the gurney rolled out, Desmond brushed past me, closeenough that his sleeve grazed my wrist. The contact was brief, electric, gone before I could decide whether it was accidental.
“Still no touching,” he murmured.
“Tragic,” I said.
