Chapter 6 The Night Shift
The Night Shift
Jax
In the army, we called this the witching hour. It’s that dead zone between the late-night adrenaline of the bars closing and the early-morning hustle of the first shift. It’s when the world is quietest, which means it’s when the ghosts are the loudest.
I am currently sitting in the Fishbowl, staring at the water stain on the ceiling tile that looks vaguely like a map of Kosovo.
I should be home. My shift ended four hours ago.
But my apartment is quiet. And silence is the enemy.
If I go home, I have to lie in the dark and listen to the hum of the refrigerator and think about the faces of the people I couldn't save. If I stay here, in the hum of the hospital, I can pretend I’m just "catching up on charts."
"You are still here."
The voice makes me jump. My hand flies to the stack of files on my desk, instinctively checking for a weapon that isn't there.
I spin the squeaky chair around.
Maxwell York is standing in the doorway.
He looks... different.
He’s not wearing the white coat. He’s not wearing the tie. He’s in his navy scrub pants and a black turtleneck sweater that fits him well enough to be illegal in at least three states. His hair is slightly looser, as if he ran a hand through it once, possibly by mistake.
He looks tired. But on him, exhaustion looks like high-fashion heroin chic. On me, it just looks like a hangover.
"Jesus, Max," I breathe, rubbing my face. "Put a bell on, will you?"
"I walked normally," he says, stepping into the room. "You were dissociating."
He closes the door. The sound of the latch clicking shuts out the low hum of the ER.
"I’m working," I lie, gesturing to the closed laptop in front of me. "Paperwork. Sterling wants Henderson’s post-op notes filed in triplicate because he’s praying we screwed up so he can bill us for the sutures."
"The surgery was flawless," Maxwell says quietly. He walks to his side of the room. He stays behind the blue tape line, but he doesn't look at it. "Mr. Henderson is extubated and complaining about the Jell-O. He will make a full recovery."
"Because of you," I say.
Maxwell pauses. He is standing by his desk, adjusting the leaves of his succulent.
"Because of us," he corrects me.
He turns to look at me. The blue eyes are softer tonight. The ice is melting, just a little, around the edges.
"Why are you here, Jax? You’ve been on duty for twenty hours."
"I could ask you the same thing, Princess. Don't you have a coffin to sleep in before the sun comes up?"
"I was checking on the patient," he says stiffly. "And I... I prefer to do my charting when the building is quiet."
"Liar," I say softly, echoing his words from earlier.
He freezes.
"You’re here because you’re wired," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Because after a surgery like that—cracking a chest, lying to the Chief, saving a life that no one wanted to save—you can't just go home and watch Netflix. The adrenaline is still humming in your veins."
Maxwell stares at me. He doesn't deny it.
"And you?" he asks. "Is it the adrenaline?"
"Nah," I say, picking up my stress ball and squeezing it. "I just don't sleep much. It’s a... feature. Not a bug."
Maxwell looks at me. He doesn't give me the pity look. He doesn't ask about "trauma" or "PTSD" or any of the buzzwords the HR pamphlets love. He just nods, once. Acknowledging the fact.
"Coffee," he states.
"What?"
"You are vibrating," he points out. "If I do not administer a controlled dose of high-quality caffeine, you are going to drink the sludge from the breakroom and give yourself a gastric ulcer."
He turns to the small, sleek machine on his desk. I’ve made fun of it for a week. It looks like a spaceship.
"I thought you said my side was a biohazard," I tease. "You’re going to brew coffee in the Exclusion Zone?"
"I am making a humanitarian exception," he says, pressing a button.
The machine whirs. The smell hits me instantly—rich, dark, expensive espresso. It smells like comfort.
I watch his hands. They are steady now. Precise. He steams the milk with the focus of a bomb tech defusing an IED.
He walks over to the tape line. He holds out a ceramic mug. Not a paper cup. A real mug.
I roll my chair forward. I reach across the line.
Our fingers brush as I take the mug.
Zap.
Static electricity. We both flinch, but neither of us pulls away.
"Thanks," I murmur.
I take a sip. It’s incredible. It’s smooth, bitter, and hot. It warms my chest in a way the radiator never could.
"My god," I groan. "Okay. You win. The spaceship is superior."
Maxwell allows himself a tiny, smug smile. He takes his own cup—black, no sugar—and sits on the edge of his desk. He crosses his ankles.
"Why did you do it?" I ask. The question has been burning a hole in my tongue for six hours.
Maxwell looks down at his coffee. "Do what?"
"Lie to Sterling. You’re the Golden Boy. You’re the Rule Follower. You risked your reputation for a homeless junkie and a trauma surgeon you barely tolerate."
Maxwell runs a finger around the rim of his cup.
"I do not barely tolerate you," he says quietly.
My heart does a stupid, fluttery thing.
"No?"
"No," he says. He looks up. "You are chaotic. You are loud. You have absolutely no respect for sterility or protocol."
"But?"
"But you are the only person in this entire hospital who looks at a patient and sees a life, not a liability," Maxwell says. "Sterling looked at Mr. Henderson and saw a budget cut. You looked at him and saw a man."
He takes a sip of his coffee.
"I envy that," he admits. The words are barely a whisper. "I have spent my entire career perfecting the mechanics of saving lives. I think... somewhere along the way... I forgot why I was saving them."
The silence that follows isn't heavy. It’s thick, yeah, but it’s the good kind. The kind that wraps around you.
I look at him. Really look at him. I see the loneliness behind the glasses. I see the pressure of being the Perfect York Son.
"You didn't forget, Max," I say softly. "You just needed a reminder. Someone to kick a little dirt on your clean floor."
Maxwell huffs a laugh. "You have certainly provided the dirt."
He stands up. He walks to the window—or, the glass wall that looks out into the empty hallway.
"Go home, Jax," he says. He’s not looking at me. "The coffee will keep you awake for the drive. But you need to rest."
"I can't," I admit. The truth slips out before I can stop it. "My apartment... it’s too quiet."
Maxwell turns around. He leans against the glass. He studies me for a long moment.
"Then sleep here," he says.
"What?"
"The On-Call Room," he says. "Room 3B. It’s at the end of the hall. It has no windows. The ventilation system is loud. It is not quiet."
"You know the ventilation schedule of the On-Call rooms?"
"I know everything about this building," he says simply. "Go. Sleep. I will finish the Henderson paperwork. I will tell Sterling you filed it."
I stare at him. He’s offering to do my admin work. He’s offering me a sanctuary.
"Why?" I ask.
Maxwell pushes off the wall. He walks back to his desk and sits down, opening his laptop.
"Because," he says, typing his password. "I prefer you rested. You are less annoying when you are not hallucinating from sleep deprivation."
I grin. I can't help it.
"You’re a terrible liar, Dr. York."
"Go," he orders, pointing to the door.
I stand up. I take the mug with me.
"Hey, Max?"
He pauses his typing. "Yes?"
"The coffee really is good."
I walk to the door. I pause, looking back at him. The light from his laptop illuminates his sharp cheekbones, the serious set of his mouth. He looks like a fortress.
But tonight, he lowered the drawbridge.
"Goodnight, Jax," he says, without looking up.
"Night, Princess."
I walk out.
I go to Room 3B. He was right. The vent rattles like a dying engine. It’s loud. It’s steady.
I lie down on the scratchy cot. I pull the thin blanket up.
For the first time in two weeks, the ghosts don't come.
I close my eyes, and all I can smell is espresso and expensive cashmere.
I’m asleep in three minutes.