And then—the overhead lights stuttered, came back alive in a sudden flare of brightness.The soft thrum of climate control resumed, devices chirped their startup sequences.
The power was back.
Didn’t revive our ventilator, though. I heard Finn’s breath hitch, our gazes catching, tangling. Not in the clear yet—but Jesus, it had to help. Speed up the search for a replacement.
Another switch. Sweat itched on the back of my neck as time slipped sideways.
“Dr. Maddox?” Urgent voice and hurried footsteps. The resident, rushing ahead, and—oh God yes,finally. He was trailed by a respiratory therapist with a replacement vent. Something in my chest tugged loose, rib cage widening.
“Remind me to send flowers to central supply,” I managed, voice rough as if I hadn’t used it for hours.
“Coffee works faster.” The therapist slid the machine up against the crib, hands already on the circuit, screen booting before I’d even blinked. I inhaled through a sense of disbelief, the world still frayed and pastel-colored.
“Ready to reconnect,” I told Finn, and he nodded, eyes bright like twin stars.
“On your count.”
The ventilator’s screen changed to a steady glow. One last manual squeeze, like an insurance, then I counted us down and eased the mask away, Finn matching me. The circuit clicked home.
A tiny chest rose, back on machine breath.
God. We’d done it.
Relief almost felled me as reality forced its way back in. The ventilator’s steady hiss felt like the aftermath of a storm, Baby Sloan’s cheeks rosy now, her tiny lashes pale against her skin. Next to me, Finn was quiet, and when I glanced over, he looked like he’d been cracked open, dark hair stuck to his forehead, eyes the color of a summer sky.
There be dragons.
Footsteps pounded, then the curtain snapped back. Dr. Novak. She barreled in as though she’d run all the way from the elevator—probably had. “Status?” she barked.
“Post-op bleed. Pressure dropped, severe perfusion issue.” I straightened instinctively, forcing calm. This woman was one of the reasons I’d gone into pediatric surgery, something like my role model ever since I’d watched her open a newborn’s chest during my third year of residency, calm as rain, while I’d been shaking on the inside with panic and admiration. “Two units A-neg, one running. Vitals stable now, still tamponading the incision. The vent malfunctioned; Dr. Hayes and I bagged for…” How long—minutes? Hours? I glanced at my watch. “Sixteen minutes, give or take.”
A lifetime.
Novak’s gaze flicked from Baby Sloan to the monitor, and finally settled back on me. “I’ll take it from here. Good job, Dr. Maddox.” A glance. “Dr. Hayes.”
Finn’s eyes widened. He ducked his head, cheeks flushing, a dimple peeking through. “Thank you,” he said, quiet and pleased.
God. Adrenaline withdrawal hit me like a wave, sudden and intense, muscles burning like I’d run ten miles. My attention tripped over the smear of blood across the chest of his surgical gown, put there by my own gloves like a mark no one else would know how to decode. Shameful heat knotted below my ribs.
Rules, hierarchy, all the distance we’d put between us—for sixteen minutes, they’d ceased to matter, emergency brake disengaged. And I’d felt like I could breathe.
Professionals.
“Excellent job,” I told him. My voice cracked just enough that his brows pinched together. I cleared my throat. “Grab some water and go home. Your shift’s long since over.”
Mine too. But what else was new?
I caught the hesitation in his eyes, the way his gaze lingered just a beat too long. Blood rushed in my ears while Novak issued quiet orders, then Finn stepped back with a small, fleeting smile that echoed in the pit of my stomach.
Even though I didn’t watch him leave, my lungs shrank to what seemed like half their size.
Back to reality.
Beautiful under pressure.
“You know what New York needs?” Shane’s pause was all dramatic effect, designed to draw a reaction from grade schoolers.
I made a questioning noise, dipping my last taco chip in guacamole that was a little too lime-forward. Time folded in weird ways, my brain still skipping through moments that seemed wrapped in shadows—the rise and fall of the baby’s tiny chest, how Finn had pressed along my side as we breathed for her. How the faulty vent had been rolled away for investigation, leaving me standing next to an empty crib, suddenly useless and a little lost. This slightly overlit booth in a casual Mexican place near the hospital seemed like a different world.
