Chapter 19
Sutures
Jax
Pain is a familiar roommate.
I know the sharp stab of a broken bone. I know the dull, throbbing ache of a concussion. I know the burning sting of a laceration.
But waking up in the ICU of St. Jude’s Medical centre, the pain feels different. It feels... heavy. Like I’m wearing a vest made of lead.
I blink. The world is blurry.
The ceiling tiles are white. The monitor to my left is beeping a steady, rhythmic ping. 72 bpm. Textbook sinus rhythm.
I try to move my right arm. Bad idea. A sharp fire shoots through my ribs.
"F**k," I hiss through my teeth.
"Language."
The voice comes from my right. It is soft, raspy, and tired.
I turn my head slowly.
Maxwell York is sitting in the visitor’s chair.
He looks like he’s been through a war. His suit jacket is gone. His white shirt is wrinkled, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tie is undone, hanging loose around his neck. He hasn't shaved, and a shadow of dark stubble covers his jaw.
But the most shocking thing is that his hand—his million-dollar, surgeon’s hand—is gripping mine like a lifeline.
"Max?" I croak. My throat feels like I swallowed a handful of gravel.
Maxwell’s eyes snap open. They are bloodshot, rimmed with red. When he sees I’m awake, the relief that washes over his face is so raw it almost hurts to look at.
"Jax," he breathes. He stands up, leaning over the bed rail. He cups my face with his free hand. His palm is warm. "You’re with me. Do you know where you are?"
"ICU," I manage. "St. Jude’s."
Then, the memory hits me. The locker room. The look in his eyes when he called me clutter. The way he cut me open without a scalpel.
I pull my hand away from his. It takes all my strength, but I do it.
"Why are you here?" I whisper. The hurt in my chest is worse than the broken ribs. "You kicked me out, York. Remember? I’m a liability. I’m clutter."
Max flinches. He looks like I slapped him.
"Jax, please," he says, his voice breaking. "I didn't mean it."
"You sounded like you meant it," I say, closing my eyes because looking at him hurts too much. "You humiliated me in the OR. You cut me loose the second Sterling pushed you."
"I cut you loose because Sterling had a gun to your head," Max says fiercely.
I open my eyes. "What?"
Max reaches into his pocket. He doesn't pull out a phone; he pulls out a crumpled, water-stained envelope that looks like it’s been gripped in a fist for hours.
"Sterling had photos," Max says. "Of us. In the parking lot. On the terrace. In the tailor shop."
My breath hitches. The tailor shop.
"He threatened to release them," Max continues, his voice trembling with rage. "But that wasn't the leverage, Jax. I didn't care about the scandal. I didn't care about my reputation."
He leans closer, his blue eyes intense and terrified.
"He drafted a complaint to the Medical Licensing Board. He was going to accuse you of trading sexual favors for the grant. He was going to have your license revoked."
I stare at him. The pieces click into place. The cruelty in the OR. The "warm body" comment. He wasn't rejecting me; he was making it look real so Sterling wouldn't destroy my life.
"He was going to take medicine away from you," Max whispers. "He was going to take the only thing you have that keeps the ghosts away. I couldn't let him do that. So I made him believe we were done."
"So you decided to destroy us instead?" I ask. My voice is raspier now, harder.
Max pauses. "I... I protected you."
"No, Max. You made a choice for me." I try to sit up, but the pain slams me back down. I grit my teeth. "You didn't trust me. You didn't come to me and say, 'Hey, Sterling is blackmailing us, let’s fight this together.' You just decided you knew what was best for the poor, broken veteran."
"I panicked," Max admits. "I saw a threat to your survival, and I eliminated it. It was triage."
"It was arrogant," I snap. "I’m not a patient on your table, Max. I’m your partner. Or I thought I was. Partners don't amputate the relationship to save the career without asking first."
Max looks down at his hands. He looks ashamed. He looks small.
"You’re right," he whispers. "I treated you like a problem to be solved. I was so terrified of losing you that I... I broke everything."
He looks up at me.
"I am sorry, Jax. Not just for the lie. But for thinking I had the right to make that sacrifice for you."
I look at him. I see the exhaustion. I see the fear.
"You’re an idiot, York," I say softly.
"I am aware."
"But," I reach out and take his hand again. "You’re my idiot. And you came back."
Max squeezes my hand so hard my knuckles crack. "I will always come back."
"Okay," I say. "But we’re not done fighting about this. When I can stand up without passing out, I’m going to yell at you properly."
"I look forward to it," Max says, a small, relieved smile touching his lips.
"So," I say, shifting gears. "Sterling still has the photos. He still has the complaint. If he sees you here..."
"Screw Sterling," Max says. The ice is back in his voice, but this time, it’s protective. It’s dangerous.
"Max, if he files that complaint—"
"He won't," Max says calmly. "Because he is currently being escorted off the premises by security."
I blink. "What?"
"Sterling is gone," Max says. "Fired. For cause. Effective immediately."
"How? The Board loves him. He makes them money."
Max lets out a long, shuddering sigh. He rubs his temples as if warding off a migraine.
"My father," Max says. "Alistair decided to... intervene."
"Alistair fired him?"
"Alistair destroyed him," Max corrects. "He stormed into the boardroom like an avenging angel in a three-piece suit. He told the Board that Sterling lacked 'vision.' He threatened to pull the entire York endowment."
Max pauses. He looks traumatized.
"And then... he started talking about boarding school."
"Boarding school?" I ask, confused.
"He went on a tangent," Max says, staring into the middle distance with a thousand-yard stare. "About the sixties. About cold showers and rugby and... 'confusing friendships' with the rowing captain."
I choke on a laugh. "No."
"Yes," Max says, looking horrified. "He told the entire Hospital Board that 'experimentation builds character.' He implied things, Jax. Graphic things. He essentially told Sterling that he doesn't care who I sleep with, as long as I’m winning."
"Your dad is a legend," I wheeze, clutching my ribs.
"My dad is a menace," Max shudders. "I learned things today, Jax. Things a son should never know about his father. I may need therapy. I may need to scrub my brain with bleach."
"So Sterling is gone?"
"Gone," Max confirms. "And the Interim Chief is terrified of Alistair, so he reinstated the shared workspace. Office 104 is ours again."
He reaches into his bag on the floor.
"Which brings me to this."
He pulls out a heavy, wrapped box. He places it carefully on the bed.
I tear the paper off. It’s heavy.
It’s the espresso machine. The "Spaceship" from his office.
"I am giving it to us," Max says. "For the office. I already set it up. Tape line and all. Although... I might be willing to negotiate the boundaries of the Exclusion Zone."
I grin. "I’m keeping the corn chips."
"We will discuss the chips."
"My turn," I say. "My leather jacket. Is it here?"
"The nurses cut it off you," Max says apologetically. "But I saved the contents of the pockets. It’s in the drawer."
Max opens the bedside drawer. He hands me a small, crumpled envelope.
"I was going to give this to you before everything with Sterling happened,” I say. "Open it."
Max opens the envelope. He slides the silver key into his palm.
"A key?"
"To my place," I say. "I know it’s messy. I know the radiator clanks. But I want you to have a place where you don't have to be the Chief. Where you don't have to be a York. You can just be Max."
Max stares at the key. His hand is trembling.
"You still want me?" he whispers. "After I tried to manage your life?"
"Max, you just saved my life. I think we’re even. Besides..." I smirk. "I need someone to organize my sock drawer. It’s a disaster zone."
Max laughs, and a tear spills over. He leans down and kisses me. It’s gentle, terrified of hurting me, but full of desperate need.
"I accept the mission," he whispers against my lips.
He climbs into the bed next to me, careful of the wires. He rests his head on my shoulder.
"Vital signs are stable," Max murmurs, listening to my heart. "Sinus rhythm."
"Vital signs?" I ask.
"Perfect," he says. "Absolutely perfect."
I close my eyes. I have broken ribs, a concussion, and I know way too much about Alistair York’s boarding school days.
But I have the key in his hand. And I have Maxwell York in my arms.
Best Christmas ever.