Love At first Strike

Chapter 1: The Golden Hour

The emergency room at Saint Michael's Hospital runs on a rhythm all its own. After five years working here, I've learned to read its pulse like a second heartbeat beneath my skin. The sharp antiseptic scent mingles with the metallic undertone of blood and the ever-present aroma of coffee—scents that have become as familiar as my own cologne. Tonight feels different though. The air carries that electric charge that usually precedes our busiest shifts, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I've learned to trust these instincts.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of clinical white that makes everyone look a little sicker than they are. My scrubs rustle softly as I move between beds, the squeak of my shoes against the freshly waxed floor marking each step.

"Marcus, your coffee's getting cold," Amy calls from the nurses' station, pushing my favorite Mario Brothers mug toward me. The ceramic clinks against the counter, and the rich aroma of her special hazelnut blend cuts through the hospital smells. "And don't give me that look—you're doing that thing where you're too busy mothering everyone else to take care of yourself."

She's been my best friend since nursing school, and she knows my pre-shift rituals better than anyone. She also knows how to read my moods better than my actual mother does.

"I'm not mothering," I protest, but even I can hear the lie in my voice. "I'm just being thorough."

"Uh-huh." Amy raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Like you were being 'thorough' when you stayed two hours after your shift yesterday to help Mrs. Martinez video call her grandkids?"

Heat creeps up my neck. "That was different. She doesn't speak English well, and her family—"

"Needs you to take care of yourself too," Amy interrupts, her dark eyes soft with understanding. "The ER won't fall apart if you take five minutes to drink your coffee while it's actually hot for once."

*Like it did with Jason*, goes unsaid between us. The memory of my first year as a nurse, of the patient I lost because I was too exhausted to notice the warning signs quickly enough, still sits heavy in my chest. I push it away, focusing instead on the warmth of the mug between my palms.

"Thanks," I say, grabbing the mug while checking the monitors for my current patients. The steady beep-beep-beep from various rooms creates a technological symphony I've grown to find oddly comforting. Mrs. Rodriguez in bed three needs her pain meds soon—I can see her vitals creeping up, indicating increasing discomfort—and Mr. Thompson in five is finally sleeping after his anxiety attack, his monitors showing the peaceful rhythm of real rest.

A quiet moment to savor my—

The emergency bay doors burst open with a whoosh of cold night air that raises goosebumps on my arms.

"Multiple trauma incoming! Car versus semi, driver critical!" The paramedic's voice cuts through the relative calm, and my coffee mug hits the counter with a clank that makes Amy wince.

I'm moving before I can think, falling into the choreographed chaos I know so well. The squeak of gurney wheels mingles with the rapid-fire exchange of information. The victim is a young woman, maybe mid-twenties, blood matting her blonde hair. The metallic scent of blood becomes stronger, mixing with the sharp tang of fear-sweat and diesel fuel from the accident scene.

The paramedic rattles off vitals that make my stomach clench—pressure dropping, possible internal bleeding. My hands are already moving, muscle memory taking over as I help transfer her from gurney to bed. Her skin is cool and clammy under my fingers.

"She's crashing!" someone shouts, and I'm already reaching for the crash cart when Dr. Harrison, our regular attending, calls for surgery. But he's not looking at any of us—his eyes are fixed on the trauma room doors.