Chapter 21 Vital Signs
Vital Signs
Maxwell
People resolve to lose weight, to save money, to learn a language. They make promises to themselves that they will break by February.
I do not make resolutions. I make protocols.
And the protocol for Office 104 has been significantly revised.
I stand in the doorway of the office. The renovation of the East Wing is technically complete. My pristine, glass-walled suite on the top floor is ready for occupancy. It has a view of the skyline. It has silence. It has a private bathroom.
I turned it down.
"You’re staring again," a voice says from inside the room. "It’s creepy."
I step inside.
Jax is sitting at his desk. He is wearing his scrubs, but his left arm is in a sling to support his cracked ribs. He is technically on administrative duty for two more weeks, which means he is bored, dangerous, and eating corn chips out of sheer spite.
"I am inspecting the perimeter," I say, closing the door.
I walk to my desk. I placed my succulent there this morning. It sits next to my laptop, perfectly centred.
But then I look at the floor.
The blue tape line is gone.
I peeled it up myself an hour ago. The floor is sticky where the adhesive used to be, a ghost of the boundary I once thought was necessary for my survival.
"The Interim Chief stopped by while you were in rounds," Jax says, crunching a chip. "Dr. Evans? Nice guy. Sweat a lot. He looked terrified."
"Evans is a bureaucrat," I say, sitting down and adjusting my cuffs. "He knows he serves at the pleasure of the Board. And he knows the Board is currently terrified of my father."
Jax grins. "Yeah, he mentioned that. He said the Board officially approved the shared workspace and integration of our departments. He called it a 'Visionary Synergy Initiative.'"
Jax rolls his eyes.
"Which I think translates to: 'Please tell Alistair York not to fire us too.'"
I permit myself a small, satisfied smile. "Synergy is very important."
"Uh-huh. Also, things are getting weird out there, Max. A resident asked me to sign her stethoscope today. I told her it would void the warranty, but she looked ready to cry."
I pause, glancing at him. "Autographs? I suppose that is to be expected. You are 'Dr. Dreamy,' after all."
"Don't start," Jax warns. "It gets worse. I heard the cafeteria is officially naming a sandwich after me. The 'Trauma Turkey.'"
"Appetizing," I drawl.
"Apparently, it’s messy, packed with questionable ingredients, and falls apart if you handle it wrong."
"Accurate," I muse.
"It is not—"
He cuts off as a sharp knock sounds on the door frame. We both turn to see Mama Ortiz standing there. She isn't holding a chart or a clipboard. She is holding a massive, foil-wrapped object that smells aggressively of spices.
She takes a large bite, chewing with deliberate satisfaction as she stares Jax down. Sauce drips perilously close to her uniform.
Jax’s eyes widen. "Mama, are you eating that? That is the sandwich they named after me. Eating it in front of me feels like identity theft."
"It’s delicious, mijo," Ortiz says, swallowing. "It tastes like jalapenos and bad decisions. Just like you."
Jax drops his head into his good hand. "I hate this place."
"You love us," Ortiz corrects him, stepping fully into the room. She places a napkin on his desk, right next to his corn chips. "Now sign my napkin, Dr. Dreamy. My granddaughter needs proof I know you."
Jax groans, his face flushing a shade of pink I find incredibly endearing, but he picks up a pen and scribbles his signature.
"Thank you, Mama," he mutters, handing it back.
"You’re welcome," she says, tucking the napkin into her pocket. She turns to me, her expression sobering just a fraction. "Happy New Year, Dr. York. Nice to see you back where you belong."
"Thank you, Mrs. Ortiz," I say, inclining my head.
She winks, takes another massive bite of the Trauma Turkey, and saunters out of the office.
Silence descends for a moment, smelling faintly of jalapenos.
"Funny," Jax says, recovering his composure. "I heard they’re naming a salad after you, by the way. The 'York Greens.' It costs fifteen dollars, has no dressing, and leaves you feeling cold inside."
"That is slander," I say, standing up to walk to the espresso machine. "My salad would feature a balsamic reduction. It would be complex."
"It would be high-maintenance," Jax corrects.
He points to a massive, cellophane-wrapped basket on the floor.
"Evans also left that. It has pears and a card that says 'Thank You for Your Service.' He asked if I was still planning to sue the hospital for the bus incident. I told him I’d settle for a new bumper and a lifetime supply of the good coffee."
He gestures to the espresso machine. It is set up on a small table between our desks. Neutral ground.
"You sold your litigious rights for caffeine?" I ask, brewing two cups.
"And for you," Jax says, his voice dropping that octave that still makes my breath hitch. "I figured keeping the Chief of Cardio as my personal barista was a decent settlement."
I hand him his mug—the chipped one. I keep my crystal glass.
I lean against the edge of his desk. I am now deep in the former "Exclusion Zone." It smells of spicy chips, the linger of Mama Ortiz’s sandwich, and cedar. I find I do not mind it.
"I am not a barista," I inform him. "I am a coffee artist."
"So," I say, shifting gears. "New Year. New protocol."
"What’s the protocol, Chief?"
"No more secrets," I say. "No more hiding in closets. No more listening to the Board."
Jax grins. He reaches out with his good hand and hooks a finger into my belt loop, pulling me closer until my thigh presses against his knee.
"I like that protocol," he says. "Does it include more nights at my place?"
"It includes nights at your place," I concede. "Provided you allow me to organize your kitchen. The spice arrangement is anarchic."
"Deal."
My phone buzzes on the desk.
I pick it up.
"Mother?" Jax asks, raising an eyebrow.
"No," I say, looking at the screen. "It’s Preston."
Happy New Year, traitors. Mother is currently drinking sherry and complaining that Maxwell has joined a cult after the Gala. It’s the best holiday break I’ve ever had!
I show the phone to Jax.
Jax laughs, a loud, genuine sound that fills the small room.
"Kid’s gonna be alright," Jax says. "We’ll corrupt him yet."
"I worry about the leather jacket he was wearing at the Gala," I muse. "He doesn't have the shoulders for it."
"He’ll grow into it. Just like you grew into this." Jax gestures to the office, to the mess, to us.
"I did not grow," I correct him. "I adapted. Evolution is a hallmark of a superior organism."
"Keep telling yourself that, Princess."
Jax
I’m happy.
It’s a weird feeling. Usually, when the adrenaline fades, the crash comes. The ghosts come back. The guilt creeps in.
But sitting here, watching Maxwell York meticulously wipe a drop of espresso off the counter, the ghosts are quiet.
Maybe it’s because I’m not alone in the bunker anymore. Maybe it’s because I know that when I go to sleep tonight, he’ll be there, anchoring the perimeter.
"So," Max says, sitting back down. "Dr. Singh tells me she won fifty dollars in the betting pool."
"Did she?" I grin. "Smart girl. Who did she bet on?"
"She bet that I would crack first."
"She wasn't wrong," I say. "You did break into a secure on-call room to read me anatomy textbooks."
"That was a medical intervention."
"That was foreplay."
Max flushes pink. It’s adorable.
"You are incorrigible," he mutters.
Before I can respond, the tones drop.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The sound echoes through the ceiling speakers. The PA system crackles to life.
"Code Blue. Emergency Room. Bay 1. Cardiac Arrest. ETA 2 minutes."
Max freezes. His head snaps up. The "Chief" mask slides halfway back into place—focused, sharp, ready.
He looks at me. He looks at my sling.
"You are on administrative duty," he reminds me.
"I’m on light duty," I correct him. I stand up. My ribs twinge, but I ignore it. "I can't do compressions, but I can run the code. You’re gonna need someone to yell at the residents."
Max hesitates. He looks at the sling. He looks at my eyes.
He sees that I need this. That even injured, I need the work. I need the rhythm.
"Fine," Max says. He stands up and buttons his white coat. "But you do not touch a patient. You supervise. If you lift anything heavier than a stethoscope, I will sedate you myself."
"Understood, sir."
We walk to the door.
Max opens it. He pauses.
He looks back at the office. The two desks pushed together. The espresso machine humming. The sun streaming through the glass wall of the Fishbowl.
"Ready?" he asks.
I step up beside him. Our shoulders brush. I don't pull away. He doesn't pull away.
"Always," I say.
We walk out into the hallway together.
The ER is loud. It’s chaotic. Thunderstruck is playing faintly from the nurses' station.
We walk side by side, matching step for step. The Ice King and the Trauma Cowboy. The order and the chaos.
We push through the double doors of the Trauma Bay.
"Status report!" Max barks, taking command of the room.
"Airway is clear!" I yell, flanking him. "Get the pads on!"
We go to work.
The heart is a dramatic organ. It stops. It starts. It breaks. It heals.
But as I look across the patient at Maxwell, seeing his hands steady and sure, seeing him look at me with that genuine, terrifying love in his eyes, I know one thing for sure.
We’re going to keep it beating.