Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Chloe
Swagger’s not confidence—it’s survival. And today, I’m faking it with everything I’ve got.
I’m bent over a chart at Central, chewing the end of my pen. Since I’m benched from seeing new patients, I’m pretending to be productive.
I’m finishing updating a chart when Olivia hooks a thumb toward bay nine.
“Got a woman in there with a three-year-old—Kayden. Kid’s got a rash, might be viral. But the mom?” She tips her head meaningfully. “Red flags.”
I follow her toward the curtain, but she stops me just outside. “I need five minutes with the mother alone. Can you keep Kayden company while I talk to her?”
I falter. “Uh… I’m not exactly great with toddlers.”
“You don’t need to be. Just distract him. Coloring books are on the nurses’ station if you need. Apparently, he’s obsessed with dinosaurs. Take a look at his rash too.”
“Got it, you’re the boss.”
She chuckles. “Damn right I am.”
Inside, the child is curled up against his mother’s side, clinging to a battered blue stegosaurus plush toy. The mom’s eyes are hollowed out, the skin beneath them purple and papery. Olivia steps in ahead of me, greets them both, and crouches to the kid’s level.
“Hi, Kayden. I’m Olivia. This is Dr. Chloe. She’s gonna hang out with you while your mom and I have a grown-up chat. That okay?”
He peers at us warily but gives a small nod.
“Kayden,” the mom says gently, brushing his hair back, “you be good, okay?”
I smile and kneel beside him as Olivia leads her out of the bay. The kid’s small, shorter and thinner than average, and covered in blotchy patches that spider across his arms. I grab the tiny plastic stool from the corner and sit on it.
“You like dinosaurs?” I ask.
He hugs the stegosaurus tighter, smiling.
“What’s his name?”
“Spike,” he whispers.
“Excellent choice. He looks tough. You think he’d win in a fight against a T-Rex?”
Kayden’s eyes narrow as if I’ve said something deeply controversial. “Stegosauruses have tail spikes. They use them like swords.”
“Ah. Of course. Spike would totally win, then.”
A corner of his mouth quirks upward.
I pull out my phone and search Google for dinosaur pictures, sliding it toward him. He taps with eager fingers, naming each one under his breath.
“Hey Kayden,” I say gently, “can I take a quick look at that rash on your arm?” He holds it out without glancing up from the screen. I palpate the skin—warm, but not hot. No swelling or tenderness. Olivia was right. Viral.
While he’s distracted, I let myself glance toward Central. Olivia’s sitting across from the mother, her body language low and open. She’s talking gently, leaning forward with ease that comes from years of practice, not performance.
I can’t hear what’s being said, but I see the moment she breaks. The mother lifts her hands to her face. Olivia doesn’t touch her; she allows her to cry. It’s clinical, but warm.
Eventually, the mother dips her chin, wipes her cheeks, and they stand. I look away before they see me watching.
A few minutes later, Olivia rejoins us. The mother lingers at the entrance, lips pressed thin, but calmer than before.
“She’s taking the social work referral. Hopefully they can secure her some financial aid,” Olivia murmurs to me.
I nod, and Kayden hugs Spike to his chest.
“Bye, Kayden,” I say. “Spike’s a legend.”
He gives me a small wave, then trails after his mom, still clutching the dinosaur.
Once they’re gone, Olivia exhales and rubs the bridge of her nose.
“That was… intense,” I reply, standing.
“She’s not a bad mom. She’s just drowning financially. And too ashamed to ask for help. Happens more often than you think.”
“She said yes, though.”
“Eventually. Most of them do. They just need someone to look them in the eye and tell them it’s okay to not be okay.”
We start walking back to Central.
“You’re good at that,” I comment. “The listening thing.”
“You get better at it with time. I wasn’t always like this.” She lifts the water bottle strapped across her like a purse and takes a swig. “I used to get pulled up for being ‘too direct.’ One doctor said I was ‘too cold to work in pediatrics.’ I nearly smacked him.”
I snort. I can totally picture that. Olivia swinging a clipboard at some smug doctor with too much ego and not enough sense.
“What changed?”
“Had my first kid.”
I smile. “How many do you have?”
“Four.” She grins. “All boys. Twelve, eight, six, and four.”
“Wow. And you still have energy to run this place?”
“Energy? No. Caffeine and rage? Plenty.”
I laugh. “Do your kids know you’re basically a superhero?”
“They just think I’m ‘Mom who yells a lot and forgets their footy socks.’” Her smile softens. “But when my youngest had appendicitis last year, I’d never seen three kids fight harder to get into the back of an ambulance with their brother. Suddenly, I was cool.”
We reach Central, and she drops a note in the chart tray.
“Here’s the thing, Monroe. You’re sharp. Fast. You know your shit. But I can already tell that you take everything personally.”
I bristle. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No. But it will be if you don’t learn to manage it. You can’t take every patient home with you.”
I let the truth of her words sink in.
“Learn when to lean in,” she continues, “and when to step back. Your job is to care. Not to combust.”
“Did you combust?”
She quirks an eyebrow. “More than once. But the hospital’s still standing.”
I lift my chin slowly.
“And hey,” she adds, tapping my chart. “Thanks for watching the kid. You were good with him.”
“Didn’t do anything. He did most of the talking.”
“That’s the trick. Listen hard enough, they’ll show you what you need to know.”
She turns to leave, then pauses. “And next time someone tells you you’re too young, too soft, too emotional? Ignore them.”
“Why?”
She glances over her shoulder, smirking.
“Because you remind me of me. And that means you’ll be just fine.”
Olivia disappears down the hall, and I exhale—shoulders a little looser, spine a little straighter. I don’t know if she had planned to give me a pep talk, but it worked. I tuck it away, quiet and private, a secret weapon I can pull out when I need it.
I turn around and find Jax hunched over a chart, flipping through a file.
“What do you have?” I ask, planting myself beside him.
I might be benched, but I’m not going to stand around doing nothing.
I need to stay busy—plus, I’d rather help out Jax than Sienna.
She’s too perceptive; she’d sniff out that I’m not seeing new patients in a heartbeat.
And once she gets a thread, she’ll pull.
“Male, mid-thirties,” Jax tells me, looking at the chart. “Knocked off his bike, skidded across the asphalt for a couple meters.”
I let out a low whistle. “Ouch.”
“You can say that again.”
“Diagnosis?”
“Nothing broken, no tears—just road rash, a ton of gravel to remove, and monitor for concussion.”
“That’ll take an hour, at least.”
Jax shrugs. “Yep.”
“If you want, I can take him off your hands,” I offer.
“Seriously?” he says, surprised.
“Yeah, I don’t mind. You can jump in on the real action Sienna’s getting and knock some names off that board.”
He squints at me. “You know there’s at least two hundred bits of gravel in this guy’s leg, right?”
“I’ve got it,” I confirm.
“Okay, bay eight. Liam Abbott.”
“On it.” I take the chart and head for the bay.
“Hey, Monroe.”
I pause and glance back.
“Thanks,” he says. “That’s really cool of you.”
I flash him a smile. “Anytime.”
Making a friend while saving myself from looking bad—or from anyone catching on that I can’t see new patients? Both wins in my book.
Road rash is easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. I weave through the madness of the department, and a few steps later, I’m at the curtain of bay eight.
Liam Abbott is sprawled in the bed, dark hair, dark eyes, muscle stacked upon muscle under skin-tight Lycra. He’s a human anatomy chart come to life. My eyes flick down, traitorous, before I snap them back up, pretending I’m studying his file. His bits and pieces are all there, on full display.
“Well, hello, gorgeous,” he drawls.
“I’m Dr. Monroe,” I reply. “I’ll be helping Dr. Wells by cleaning out the gravel from your leg.”
“I approve of the upgrade.” He gives me a slow once-over. “Much better package than that nerd.”
Urgh. Here we go.
I keep my expression neutral. Some things only have power if you give them attention. “Your road rash looks pretty intense,” I state instead. “Any pain?”
“Just in my groin.” He waggles his brows.
I swallow a sigh and pull on gloves, determined to ignore him. I roll my stool closer. He’s hard—straining against the Lycra, the head of his cock peeking out of the shorts.
Impressive, sure. But seriously? I roll my eyes and clamp my mouth shut.
“Can you feel this, Mr. Abbott?” I ask, picking up tweezers and pressing them into his thigh. Did I stab him harder than I should have? Maybe.
His grin stays fixed. “Nope. All numbed up.”
Lucky him.
The rash stretches from his ankle to the bottom of his shorts. Thank God it doesn’t go further. Asking him to remove his shorts would be a whole thing. I can tell.
I pull on the headlight, adjusting the strap until it’s snug, and start plucking out pieces of gravel with tweezers—head down, mantra on repeat: Confident. Capable. In control.
Each tiny stone I pluck out hits the tray with a metallic clink, a rhythm that’s oddly satisfying.
“What’s your name?” he asks, trying to make small talk.
“Dr. Monroe.”
“I mean your first name.”
“First name’s Doctor. Last name’s Monroe.”
“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. We’re going to be stuck here for a while, with your face so close to my—”
“I’m concentrating, Mr. Abbott.”
“Call me Liam.”
I keep removing bits of gravel. If he’d shut up, this would actually be kind of… meditative. Like ASMR with tweezers.
Until he opens his mouth again.