3. Talia
Chapter 3
Talia
T he moment I step into Pediatrics, I know something’s wrong.
The air is thick with tension, voices sharp, urgent. Nurses move quickly, hands full of supplies. The steady beep of monitors fights against the panicked sounds of patients and family.
Just then, the door to Room 8 opens and Gina, another nurse, pokes her head out. She spies me immediately.
“Talia, we could use a hand.”
I nod and hurry over.
I push through the doorway of Room 8, where the commotion is coming from, and stop cold.
Soren is already there, somehow always first on the scene even out of the OR, gloved hands working with practiced precision. His voice is calm but firm, directing the team around him. The patient—Lucas Johnson, five years old, pneumonia—is struggling to breathe, his tiny chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His skin is too pale, lips tinged blue.
Panic flares in my chest, but I shove it down. Focus.
I move forward, pulling on gloves. “What happened?”
Soren barely glances at me. “He started deteriorating ten minutes ago. Oxygen sats are dropping fast.” His voice is clipped, all business. “I need to intubate.”
I frown. “You sure that’s necessary? He was stable this morning.”
“Does he look stable to you?” His eyes flick to me, dark and unreadable.
Annoying .
Still, he’s right. Lucas is struggling, his tiny body working overtime for air.
I reach for the chart at the foot of the bed. “Did you try a non-rebreather first?”
Soren exhales sharply. “Of course. Nothing’s working.”
He gestures to the respiratory therapist. “I need the laryngoscope.”
I watch as he tilts Lucas’s head, fingers steady. He’s infuriating, but his hands move with undeniable skill.
“Nurse Vance,” he says.
I step forward automatically, positioning my hands. Lucas’s skin is warm under my gloves, his pulse rapid against my fingertips.
Soren slides the tube in with a practiced ease that shouldn’t impress me—but it does.
“Tube’s in,” he confirms. “Bag him.”
A nurse moves to squeeze the ambu bag, pushing oxygen into Lucas’s lungs. The monitor’s alarms slow, but the numbers are still low.
“Come on, kid,” I murmur.
Soren watches the monitor, jaw tight. “Sats are climbing.”
Lucas’s tiny chest rises more evenly now. The tension in the room eases, just slightly.
Soren exhales. “That was close.”
I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I’ll let Dr. Greene know.” This is his patient, after all. Not that Super Surgeon Soren Calloway cares.
As if he heard my thoughts, his eyes flick to me. There’s something in them—something unreadable, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
He turns to another nurse. “Tell Greene to monitor him closely. I want an ABG in fifteen minutes.”
With the immediate danger over, staff begins to disperse.
I pull off my gloves, tossing them in the bin. My hands are still steady, but my heart is racing.
Soren watches me. “You did good in there.”
I blink. Did His Highness just pay me a compliment?
Before I can respond, he’s already turning away, back to his usual cold, distant self.
***
The worst, however, is not over yet.
Before twelve, another patient begins to deteriorate. Monitors beep. Nurses bark orders. A child wails in the corner of his brother’s room while his mother desperately tries to soothe him. The fluorescent lights are too bright, making the urgency of the moment feel even sharper.
The patient—Oliver Johnson, eight years old, cystic fibrosis—is struggling. His oxygen saturation is dropping, his breathing is shallow, and his small body trembles under the weight of his own exhaustion.
Dr. Greene still isn’t answering his pages, and Soren Calloway is in full surgeon mode—cold, commanding, and absolutely infuriating.
“Get me a portable X-ray,” he orders, barely glancing at one of Greene’s interns, who rushes off. “We need to rule out pneumothorax.”
I adjust the mask on Oliver’s face, my pulse matching the erratic rhythm of the monitors. “We should start antibiotics now.”
Soren’s sharp gaze cuts to me. “You’re two steps behind, Nurse Vanse. Keep up.”
I bristle but bite back my irritation. How can he be so precise, efficient, so completely void of anything resembling warmth? I shouldn’t let it get to me, but the absolute gal makes my skin prickle.
“I’m two steps ahead with the correct dosage,” I say sharply, handing the order sheet to another nurse. “We’ll start cefepime and tobramycin.”
Soren’s gaze narrows. “You calculated it?”
I glance up. “Yes.”
His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he focuses back on Oliver, his attention fully on stabilizing the boy. I push past the annoyance and do the same.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, but eventually, Oliver’s breathing evens out. His mother sobs in relief and his little brother, Andy, buries his head into her arms. The monitors settle. And just like that, the storm passes.
I step back, exhaling for what feels like the first time in hours. My scrubs stick to my skin, damp from adrenaline and sweat. I need a second to reset, to breathe.
But I don’t get it.
Because the moment I step away from Oliver’s bedside, Soren is right there, his voice low and clipped. “Supply closet. Now.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
His dark eyes flick to the side, where a few nurses are watching us too closely. He lowers his voice. “We need to talk. Privately.”
I hesitate. I should tell him to shove his arrogant demand somewhere unpleasant, but something in his tone—the controlled edge, the barely leashed irritation—makes me bite my tongue.
Fine. Whatever.
I follow him, ignoring the curious glances as we step into the supply closet. The moment the door closes, he turns to face me, and suddenly, I realize just how small this space is.
Soren towers over me, his presence dominating the entire closet. Shelves stocked with bandages, gloves, and medical supplies line the walls, but all I can focus on is him .
His dark gaze pins me in place. “You miscalculated Johnson’s dosage.”
I bristle. “No, I didn’t.”
His expression doesn’t change. “You adjusted for weight, but not renal clearance.”
Heat rushes up my neck. “I was going to recheck it before finalizing the chart.”
“And if I hadn’t caught it?”
“Then I would have caught it myself.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
Soren’s jaw ticks, the muscle flexing, his breath controlled and measured. But his eyes search mine with something I can’t quite name.
He shifts, stepping closer, and suddenly the air changes.
It’s different now.
Charged.
I can smell him—clean, sharp, like something crisp and fresh but undeniably masculine. His cologne is subtle yet devastating, the kind of scent that lingers, that sinks into your skin.
His gaze flicks to my mouth.
It’s quick, so fast I almost don’t catch it.
Almost.
I inhale sharply, my pulse skittering. My back presses against the shelf, but there’s nowhere to go, no space left between us.
The tension is suffocating. I hate what he’s doing to me.
Soren’s throat bobs slightly, like he’s swallowing down something he refuses to say. Then, just as abruptly as he pulled me into this closet, his expression shutters, his tone flatlining into something cool.
“Don’t ever contradict me again,” he says. “Especially when you’re wrong.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
His eyes darken. “Do you need a formal dismissal?”
My jaw clenches, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I push past him, my shoulder grazing his arm as I yank the door open.
The cool air outside feels like a slap to my overheated skin.
I don’t look back.
Not when I walk past the nurses’ station. Not when I grab my tablet and chart notes. Not even when I hear his footsteps retreating in the opposite direction.
I keep my head high, my pace steady. But my hands tremble slightly, and I hate that too.
***
I make it home hours later, exhausted but restless.
The house is quiet, the suburbs humming softly outside my window. The clock on my stove reads 1:37 a.m. , but sleep feels impossible.
I slip into the shower, letting the hot water scald away the tension of the day. It’s been hard, trying to leave med surg to work in the OR. But I’m determined to advance my career. Even if a certain surgeon would prefer I stay on the floor.
Even as I stand there, eyes closed, forehead resting against the tile, I can’t shake the memory of what happened.
The way he looked at me.
The way he moved closer .
I scowl at my own reflection when I step out of the shower.
Soren Calloway is an arrogant, insufferable man, Talia, I scold myself. Stop thinking about him.
I climb into bed, turning off the lamp.
The sheets are cool, the room dim. I close my eyes. But the electricity of the moment lingers.
And worst of all—I wonder .
What would his lips feel like on mine?