2. BLAKE
BLAKE
The trauma bay doors burst open with a familiar bang that echoed through Mercy Harbor’s ER.
Male, mid-fifties, crush injuries from a collision.
Another face joining the sixty-eight thousand patients who’d roll through these doors this year.
Another shot at beating the seven percent mortality rate that haunted lesser doctors’ dreams.
While most doctors hated those odds and, frankly, burned out from the stress of the unpredictable nature of this job, I thrived on the chaos. It kept my mind sharp, my reflexes primed, and challenged me in ways that made every other department feel mundane.
My best friend, Ryker, had once told me I had a savior complex.
He hadn’t been entirely wrong. Every life I saved in that ER had been an unconscious attempt to make up for that helpless moment when all I could do was watch my little sister’s blood seep through my fingers, my untrained hands desperate but useless to help her.
The metallic scent of her blood still haunted me in the quiet moments of a shift, but those minutes of powerlessness had changed me forever.
Every saved life had become a whispered promise to her: never again.
Never again would I watch someone I love suffer while I stood by, helpless.
But there was another side to that coin, one my colleagues with their white-picket childhoods and Sunday school memories couldn’t understand.
My path to medicine was born in blood, violence, and betrayal.
Beneath this white lab coat, I wasn’t normal, and sometimes, I wondered if that darkness was just waiting for the right moment to surface again.
“Multiple rib fractures, decreased breath sounds on the left,” a resident stammered. “BP’s dropping?—”
“Push one gram of TXA and start two units of O-neg,” I cut in, my hands already moving.
Around me, nurses and residents scrambled to keep up. A woman’s hysterical sobs pierced the controlled chaos. Probably family.
“Ma’am, I understand you’re worried, but right now, I need complete focus to help him. Jennifer, could you please show her to the waiting room? I promise we’ll update you as soon as we can.” I kept my voice firm, void of any panic.
Emotions were dangerous in the ER. They could cloud judgment and slow reactions, and in this department, every heartbeat counted. Every second meant the difference between life and death.
The monitors screamed a warning as the patient’s oxygen levels plummeted. Other doctors might have hesitated, might have called for consultation, but hesitation killed more patients than any disease I’d ever encountered.
“Chest tube. Now.” My tone left no room for debate.
The resident’s hands shook as he handed me the kit, but mine remained steady. They had to.
“Vitals are stabilizing,” a nurse called out.
I breathed a silent sigh of relief, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the beautiful sign that another person would make it home to his family. These were the moments that made the brutal hours worth it. A quiet reminder of why I chose this path.
And soon, hopefully, I’d become chief of emergency medicine, and I’d be able to shape the kind of ER that saved even more lives.
“He should have worn his seat belt,” the resident muttered, typing notes into the chart.
I froze, my hands still steadying the chest tube. While I didn’t allow emotions to cloud judgment in my ER, I sure as hell didn’t tolerate disrespect either.
“See his wedding ring?” I snapped. “That’s someone’s husband who nearly died tonight. You think he won’t wake up hating himself for not wearing that belt? He’s facing months of PT, assuming he makes it through the night, and your medical insight is ‘should have worn his seat belt’?”
The resident shifted, defensive. “I’m just saying?—”
“You’re not saying anything helpful.” My voice dropped low, controlled. “In this department, we treat patients with dignity. They don’t need lectures while they’re fighting for their lives. If you can’t manage basic human compassion, at least keep your judgments to yourself. Now get out.”
“But the chart?—”
“I said get out.”
I waited until his footsteps faded before turning back to check the patient’s vitals one last time.
Outside the room, my cell buzzed in my pocket. Normally, I wouldn’t reply to a group text right now. Not even with the men I considered brothers, but the words brain injury caught my eye.
SINNERS & SAINTS GROUP CHAT
Axel: Blake, I had a date last night with a woman who I’m pretty sure has a severe brain injury. Need your professional opinion.
Jace: Wait. Axel cares enough about a woman to send a text about her? Someone check the apocalypse schedule.
Ryker: [sends GIF of pigs flying]
Me: What are her symptoms?
Axel: Being attracted to you. Evidently saw you at some charity function and begged me to give her your number. The nerve.
Me: I swear to God, Axel, if you ever use a fake medical emergency to get my attention again, I’ll make sure your next hospital visit isn’t pretend.
Jace: If you do, make it look like an accident, Blake. I know a good lawyer.
Axel: Someone is so testy before breakfast. Can I give her your number or not?
Me: I don’t date. You know that. And even if I did, I’d never take sloppy seconds from you. Managed to live 35 years without an STD and don’t care to get one now.
Axel: She’s a model.
Me: Don’t care.
Axel: A lingerie model.
Jace: Leave him alone, Axel. Some of us have better things to do than collect STDs. Like saving failing businesses. Or in Blake’s case, saving lives.
Axel: *eye roll emoji*
Me: I’m literally in the ER. With actual emergencies.
Axel: Perfect. You’re already at work. Can diagnose her terrible taste in men. So, that’s a yes then?
Me: I DON’T DATE.
No matter how up front I tried to be with the women I’d casually dated through the years, they always seemed to want more, so I’d given it up.
Axel: Who said anything about dating? Take a page from my book. Never spend the night with the same woman twice.
Me: A page from your book should include an STD warning label. Now excuse me. I’m WORKING.
Ryker: Blake, poker night this week. Don’t even think about trying to reschedule again.
Jace: I need to win back last week’s losses.
Axel: The mighty Jace lost at cards. *laughing emoji* Now who needs a medical evaluation?
Jace: If you miss this week, Blake, I’m buying your hospital. Not just to rearrange your shifts so you can make poker night either. As a bonus, I can name the STD wing after Axel.
Me: I have actual dying people to attend to.
Ryker: Bring them too. They can’t be worse at cards than Jace was last week.
“Dr. Morrison?” A nurse materialized at my elbow. “Room seven needs an attending.”
I nodded, already stepping through the controlled chaos of the emergency department, expecting to find another stranger whose life hung in the balance. But when I walked into room seven, a set of achingly familiar eyes made my feet stop dead.
Tessa.