Love At first Strike

Chapter 5: After Hours

Night shifts in the ER have their own rhythm—different from the daytime chaos, but no less intense. Usually, I love them. Tonight, though, my mind keeps wandering to the cardiac unit upstairs, where I know Devon is also working late.

"Earth to Marcus." Amy waves a hand in front of my face. "That's the third time you've checked the cardiac consult board in an hour."

"I'm just being thorough," I mutter, forcing my attention back to my charts. It's been two days since the committee meeting, and I still haven't found the courage to take Devon up on his coffee offer.

"Right. Very thorough. Nothing to do with—"

The emergency bay doors burst open, cutting her off. "Multiple trauma incoming! Building collapse!"

Everything else vanishes as we spring into action. The first victim is a construction worker, covered in dust and blood, with obvious crush injuries. The second follows minutes later, then a third. Before I know it, the ER is a symphony of controlled chaos.

"We need cardiac up here!" Dr. Harrison shouts, bent over the first victim. "Possible cardiac tamponade!"

My heart jumps as I make the call. Minutes later, Devon bursts through the doors, looking somehow immaculate despite the late hour. Our eyes meet briefly before we both focus on the patient.

"Talk to me," Devon commands, and I fall into the familiar rhythm of rattling off vitals and observations. He listens intently while examining the patient, his hands sure and steady.

"We need to get him to OR now," he declares. "Nurse Chen—"

"I'll assist," I finish, already moving. We work in perfect synchronization, preparing the patient for transport.

The next few hours are a blur of intense focus and precise movements. In surgery, Devon is poetry in motion, his hands moving with confident grace as he works to save our patient's life. I anticipate his needs before he voices them, passing instruments seconds before he asks.

It's nearly dawn when we finally close. The patient is stable, and the exhaustion hits me like a wave as the adrenaline fades.

"Good work," Devon says quietly as we scrub out. He looks tired too, his perfect posture slightly softened around the edges. "You anticipate well."

"Thanks." I try to ignore how his praise makes my chest warm. "You make it easy."

He looks at me sharply, and I realize how that might sound. "I mean—you're very clear about what you need. Want. In surgery." I'm making it worse.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I try to be." He dries his hands, then hesitates. "That coffee offer still stands, you know. Though at this hour, we might need something stronger."

My heart stutters. "Are you suggesting we raid the hospital's secret whiskey stash?"

"The hospital has a secret whiskey stash?"

"Every hospital does. Usually in the oldest attending's office."

That actually gets a small laugh out of him, the sound doing dangerous things to my insides. "I meant the coffee in my office. It's better than the break room's."

His office. Alone. At dawn. Every sensible part of me is screaming that this is a bad idea.

"Lead the way," I hear myself say.

Devon's office is exactly what I'd expect—meticulously organized, with medical texts lining the walls and a state-of-the-art coffee machine in the corner. A single framed photo sits on his desk, face-down, catching my attention before he smoothly moves it into a drawer.