It was where I belonged, residual limb pain be damned.
The prosthetic still felt like a negotiation some days. Today it felt like a tool. Solid. Responsive. I moved through the department with the same rhythm I’d had before the accident, just recalibrated. Slightly different weight distribution. Slightly different center of gravity.
Different didn’t mean lesser; I was learning.
Across the trauma bay, Anya was in full command mode. Calm. Precise. That terrifyingly composed expression she wore when the room got loud. Watching her work did something unfair to my blood pressure.
We weren’t public. Not technically. There were glances. Accidental brushes of hands when passing instruments. A language built out of eye contact and restraint. It was almost worse than being open about it.
The ambulance doors burst open. Ezra’s voice came in ahead ofthe stretcher. “Forty-eight-year-old male, minor structural collapse at a warehouse, blunt force to the head, possible LOC.”
The stretcher rounded the corner. And my brain short-circuited.
Giovanni Marshall.
Fire Chief. Built like he’d been carved out of something stubborn. Dark hair greying and curling at the edges from sweat. Blood matted at his temple, running in a thin line toward his ear.
He looked furious. “I did not lose consciousness,” Gio snapped before the wheels even locked. He might appear agitated, but he didn’t fight against the restraints.
Ezra walked alongside the gurney, infuriatingly calm. Which was scarier than anything else — Ezra wasnevercalm. “You absolutely did.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You hit the ground and went lights out for a solid three seconds.”
“That is not medically significant.”
Anya stepped forward smoothly, a mask of professionalism quickly settling into place. “Chief Marshall.”
“Doctor.” He nodded curtly, jaw tight.
She glanced at Ezra. “You’re saying loss of consciousness?”
“I’m saying he face-planted and forgot his own name for a second.”
“I did not forget my name.”
“You asked me whatmyname was.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
Ezra grinned, his stern demeanor faltering just a moment. It was not subtle. I stepped into position on the other side of the bed, and Gio’s eyes flicked to me. There it was. The brief pause. The assessment. The almost imperceptible softening. “Good to see you back, Doctor Vaughn,” he said.
“Good to be back,” I replied. His gaze dropped for half a second to my prosthetic. No pity. Just acknowledgement. Then back to my face.
Anya began her exam. Gentle but thorough. Fingers probed around the wound. Checking pupil response. “Youarebleeding, Chief,” she said mildly.
“It’s entirely superficial.” Giovanni waved his hand in the air, as if he could dismiss the room’s worries with the motion alone.
“You don’t get to decide that.” Ezra leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed. Watching Gio like he’d been waiting three years for this exact opportunity. “You know,” he said conversationally, “most people appreciate when I bring them to the hospital alive.”
“I walked to the rig,” Gio shot back, brow furrowing.
“After you napped on concrete.”
“I did not nap.”
Anya held up a penlight, shutting down the infantile bickering in her trauma room. “Follow this,” Gio obeyed without hesitation.
