Chapter 6
The Midnight Feast
LUKE
They call it the Witching Hour. I call it the "Regretting My Life Choices" Hour.
I am currently standing in front of the vending machine in the basement corridor, having a staring contest with a bag of pretzels that looks like it has been in there since the Reagan administration.
My eyes feel like they are filled with sand.
My caffeine crash hit about forty minutes ago, leaving me with nothing but a headache and a hollow, gnawing feeling in my stomach.
I haven't eaten since 6:00 AM. I missed lunch because of a trauma alert. I missed dinner because of a pile-up on the I-95.
“E6,” I whisper to myself, my voice raspy. “Just dispense the pretzels. Don't be a hero.”
I press the buttons. The coil turns. It groans. The bag teeters on the edge of freedom, taunting me with its salty promise, and then… stops. It gets stuck against the glass, hanging by a single, crimped corner.
I rest my forehead against the cool plastic of the machine. I don’t have the energy to shake it. I just accept defeat. This is it. This is how I go out. Starved to death in a basement, defeated by a bag of Rold Gold while my mother is probably upstairs judging my chart notes.
“That is the saddest thing I have ever seen.”
I don’t even lift my head. “Go away, York.”
“I’m serious,” Preston’s voice comes from my left. He sounds annoyingly awake. “You look like you’re hugging the vending machine. It’s undignified, Chief. It’s beneath you. Also, that machine steals quarters. It’s a known grifter.”
“I’m hiding,” I mumble into the glass. “Mama Ortiz is on a rampage. She critiqued my suture technique on Bed 5 in front of three med students. She said my knots were ‘loose.’ I need a pretzel before I can face her again.”
“You’re not going to get it from that antique,” Preston says. A hand clamps around my upper arm. It’s a firm grip, surprising me. “Come with me.”
I try to pull away. “I don’t have time for your shenanigans, Preston. Unless you have a crowbar to liberate these carbohydrates, leave me to die.”
“I don't have a crowbar,” Preston says, pulling me away from the glass. “But I have leverage. Walk.”
He drags me—literally drags me—down the hall, away from the elevators and toward the on-call rooms. He stops at Room 3B, the one nobody uses because the mattress is lumpy, the radiator squeals, and it smells like lemon pledge and despair.
He pushes the door open.
I brace myself for the smell of stale linens.
Instead, I am hit with the scent of… sesame oil? And ginger? And… is that truffle?
“What…”
I step inside.
Preston closes the door behind us, shutting out the hum of the hospital.
The small, battered desk has been transformed.
He has laid out a surgical towel like a tablecloth.
On top of it sits a spread that has no business being in a hospital at 3:00 AM.
There are black lacquered take-out boxes, wooden chopsticks, small ceramic dishes of soy sauce, and two bottles of sparkling water that are sweating cold condensation.
“What is this?” I ask, staring at it.
“Yellowtail jalapeno,” Preston says, walking over and popping a pair of chopsticks apart. “Spicy tuna on crispy rice. Black cod with miso. And rock shrimp tempura, though I apologize, it might have lost some crunch in transit.”
“Transit?” I look at him. “Nobu doesn’t deliver to the St. Jude’s basement at three in the morning.”
Preston shrugs, sitting in the creaky chair and gesturing to the edge of the bed. “They do if you tip the driver a hundred bucks and promise to name your firstborn after the maitre d'.”
He points the chopsticks at me.
“Sit. Eat. You’re hangry. And when you’re hangry, you get mean. And when you get mean, you scare the interns. Jenkins is already crying in the supply closet.”
I hesitate. My pride says don’t eat the rich kid’s bribe food. My stomach, however, screams shut up and eat the fish.
I sit on the edge of the bed. It groans under my weight.
Preston pushes a container toward me. It’s filled with tuna that looks like ruby gemstones.
“Eat,” he commands softly.
I take a bite. It melts on my tongue. The spice hits the back of my throat, waking up my deadened senses. It is infinitely better than the trapped pretzels.
For a few minutes, we eat in silence. The radiator clanks. The ventilation hums. It’s the first time I’ve stopped moving in twelve hours. I watch Preston eat. He eats with the same precision he uses to navigate his mother—careful, deliberate, but with a hidden appetite.
He catches me staring. He holds out a piece of crispy rice.
“Try this,” he says. “It’s life-changing.”
I lean forward and take it from his chopsticks. It’s intimate. Too intimate for a supply closet.
I chew. I swallow. I drink some sparkling water.
“Is it worth it?” I ask suddenly. The question slips out before I can stop it.
Preston pauses, a piece of ginger halfway to his mouth. He lowers his hand. The playful glint in his eyes dims a little.
“Is what worth it? The delivery fee? Yes. It was criminal, but—”
“No,” I interrupt. “This. The grunt work. The hazing. The sleepless nights.”
I gesture around the grim little room.
“I get why I’m here, Preston. I have to be. This is the only path I have. But you? You have a golden parachute. You could be on a yacht in the Mediterranean right now. Instead, you’re eating takeout in a basement with a guy who yelled at you this morning.”
I look at him, really look at him.
“Is spite really enough fuel to get you through a shift like this?”
Preston sets his chopsticks down. He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. He looks at the ceiling, where a water stain is shaped vaguely like a lung.
“You saw him today,” Preston says quietly. “When he walked into the ER and smelled my mother’s perfume? He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't ask what she wanted.”
He lets out a short, dry laugh.
“He thanked God he missed her, and then he ran back to the elevators. He literally fled the scene. Max is the Golden Child, the genius surgeon, the guy who runs the department… but the moment Catherine York enters the zip code, he turns into a ghost.”
He looks down at his hands—manicured, un-scarred hands that are starting to look a little rougher around the edges.
“He saves lives. He builds the legacy,” Preston continues. “Which makes me the Spare. The designated blast shield. The one who was supposed to go to business school, sit on the Board, and manage Mother’s moods so Max could do the ‘important work.’”
He picks up his water, swirling it.
“Spite got me into med school, yeah. I wanted to see the look on Alistair’s face when I passed the MCAT. And it was glorious. But staying here?”
He shakes his head.
“It’s not about spite anymore, Luke. It’s about the fact that for the first time in my life, when I walk into a room, people aren't looking at my last name. They’re looking at my hands. They’re waiting for me to do something. To help.”
He looks at me. His blue eyes are unguarded, stripped of the "York" armor.
“I just want to be useful,” he whispers. “Is that stupid?”
I stop chewing. I feel a lump in my throat that has nothing to do with the sushi.
I thought he was playing a game. I thought he was a tourist. But a tourist doesn't care about being useful. A tourist just wants the photo op.
“No,” I say softly. “It’s not stupid.”
I rub the back of my neck, letting out a heavy sigh. The exhaustion pulls at me, loosening my own tongue.
“I get the pressure,” I admit. “Just… from the other side.”
Preston raises an eyebrow. “Do you? Mr. ‘My Mother Framed My Acceptance Letter’?”
“Hey, don’t knock the frame. It’s mahogany.” I chuckle, but it’s a dry sound. “But yeah. That’s the problem. The frame. The pride.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“My mom… she worked overtime in this hospital for ten years so I could go to med school. She worked double shifts. She skipped meals.”
I look at the door, imagining her out there, patrolling the halls.
“She carries a laminated copy of my diploma in her purse, Preston. She shows it to patients. It’s mortifying, but it’s also… terrifying. Because every time I walk into a trauma bay, I’m not just a doctor. I’m the Investment. I’m the Return.”
I look at Preston.
“You’re trying to prove you’re not a joke,” I say. “I’m trying to prove I’m not a bad investment. If I fail… I don't just fail myself. I fail the whole Ortiz timeline.”
Preston looks at me. The air in the room shifts. It stops feeling like a closet and starts to feel like a confessional.
“The Heir and the Golden Boy,” Preston muses. “We’re quite the pair, aren't we?”
“A pair of imposters,” I agree.
Preston reaches across the small desk. He picks up the bottle of sparkling water and holds it out to me. A toast.
“To the imposters,” he says. “May we fool them all.”
I tap my bottle against his. Clink.
“To the imposters.”
We drink. Preston watches me over the rim of his bottle. His gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back up to my eyes.
“You’re doing fine, by the way,” Preston says. His voice is low. “Even Mama Ortiz thinks so. I heard her telling a terrified phlebotomist that you were ‘competent, for a man.’”
I snort. “That’s high praise coming from her. Usually, I’m just ‘The Boy.’”
“Take the win, Luke.”
He stands up. He walks over to the bed where I’m sitting. He stops right in front of me.
I look up at him. In the dim light, the shadows cut across his face, making him look sharp and soft all at once.
“You’re doing fine too,” I say. The admission feels like pulling teeth, but I force it out. “You got the 8-Ball out. You didn't gag. And you saved the dog from the MRI.”
Preston smiles. It’s not the gala smile. It’s small. It’s real.
“High praise from the Chief,” he murmurs.
He reaches out. His hand hovers for a second, then lands on my shoulder. He squeezes, just once. A point of contact that burns through my scrubs.
“We should get back,” he says. “Before Jenkins dehydrates from crying.”
I don't want to go back. I want to stay in this room, with the expensive sushi and the clanking radiator, and figure out why Preston York smells like sandalwood and why I suddenly want to lean into his hand.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound of our pagers going off in unison shatters the moment like a brick through a window.
I groan, checking the clip on my waist. I freeze as I read the text.
“Plane crash,” I say, the blood draining from my face. “Commuter flight down near Teterboro. Incoming mass casualty. Level 1 activation.”
Preston is already moving. The vulnerability vanishes behind his mask of "Dr. York." He grabs the last piece of sushi and shoves it in his mouth.
“Let’s go, Chief,” he says, his voice muffled by the rice. “Duty calls. Jax is going to need someone to hand him instruments and tell him he’s pretty.”
I stand up, brushing the crumbs off my scrubs. The adrenaline is already kicking in, pushing back the exhaustion.
“Hey, York?” I call out as he reaches for the door handle.
He looks back. “Yeah?”
“Thanks. For the fish.”
He flashes that grin again.
“Anytime. But next time, you’re buying. I have a craving for vending machine pretzels.”
He slips out the door.
I watch him go. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the blood and the noise upstairs.
I’m still exhausted. I’m still stressed. But as I run toward the ER to meet the incoming chaos, I realize something has changed.
I’m not just fighting for the Ortiz timeline anymore. I think I might be fighting for the team.
And the team includes the guy in the Gucci loafers.