5. Ethan
ETHAN
T he pan clatters against the stove, a sharp metal-on-metal collision that disrupts the morning stillness. Ivy curses under her breath, fumbling to steady it, her shoulders tensed in frustration. She doesn’t hear me step in, too focused on whatever battle she’s waging with her tea-making abilities.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching for a moment before finally making my presence known. “Good morning.”
She jumps, spinning around with wide eyes before scowling at me. “Jesus, Ethan. Ever heard of making noise like a normal person?”
I bite back a grin and shrug. “Didn’t realize I needed a bell.”
She rolls her eyes and turns back to the counter, determined to ignore me.
The remnants of sleep still cling to her—messy hair, the curve of her shoulders a little softer, the stubborn furrow in her brow making her look younger than she usually lets herself.
There’s something strangely domestic about it, Ivy standing in a quiet kitchen, trying to make tea like it’s the most important thing in the world.
I push off the doorway and walk toward her, glancing at the mess she’s made. “Step aside.”
Her brow lifts. “Excuse me?”
“You’re clearly struggling.” I gesture at the pan, the scattered tea leaves, the milk that’s very close to spilling. “And I don’t feel like dealing with the fire department before breakfast.”
Her lips press together, eyes narrowing. “Oh, and I suppose you’re an expert?”
I turn on the burner, pouring in the right balance of water and milk before measuring out the tea leaves. “I know how to save lives, Ivy. Think I can handle a cup of tea.”
She crosses her arms, watching as I let the tea simmer, patient as the color deepens and the steam rises in slow curls.
“Did they teach that in med school?”
“Right between ‘How to Ignore Sleep Deprivation’ and ‘Why Your Social Life No Longer Exists’.” I toss her a look. “Very advanced coursework.”
She frowns, clearly unimpressed but still watching closely as I strain the tea into two mugs. When I slide one toward her, she picks it up with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for high-stakes situations. Then she takes a sip.
The second it touches her tongue, her eyebrows lift slightly.
I let the moment stretch before leaning against the counter. “Well?”
She takes another sip, slower this time, like she’s annoyed by how good it is. “I hate that this is actually decent.”
I grin, satisfied. “Told you. You should probably just start listening to me on all things.”
She sighs dramatically. “God, that’s the last thing I need.”
I tap the side of my mug. “It’ll make your life easier.”
She mutters something about my unbearable ego before taking another sip, her shoulders finally relaxing as the gentle hit from the caffeine settles into her. I watch her for a beat before setting my cup down. “Come on.”
She looks up. “Where?”
“Bagels.”
She blinks. “It’s barely eight in the morning.”
“And?”
She stares like she’s searching for a reason to argue but eventually sighs, pushing away from the counter. “If they’re bad, I’m holding it against you for life.”
“Duly noted.”
The bagel shop is just around the corner from her rental.
The scent of baked dough lingers deep in the wood-paneled walls, steeped into the grain like memory.
A brass bell above the door announces each customer with a chime, and behind the counter, a man with sleeves rolled and hair thinning at the crown arranges bagels by hand into woven baskets.
The floor creaks under every step, and the display case, scratched and slightly fogged, glows faintly from within, its glass shelves crowded with knishes, crumb cakes, and onion bialys like something out of a city decades past. I order while Ivy grabs a table by the window, pulling her sleeves over her hands as she watches the street outside.
When I set her bagel in front of her, she eyes it critically before taking a bite. The moment she does, she pauses. It’s slight, but I don’t miss it—the way her body goes still for half a second, the slow exhale through her nose like she doesn’t want to admit she’s impressed.
I settle into my seat and tear a piece off mine. “That good?”
She takes another bite, chewing like she’s considering whether I deserve an answer.
“You’re blushing.”
Her cheeks actually go red, just for a second, before she glares at me.
I don’t bother hiding my amusement. “Oh, yeah. That’s the face of someone who isn’t in love with her bagel.”
“Shut up, Ethan.”
“Adorable.”
She groans, but it’s drowned out by her coffee as she takes a sip.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, letting the morning settle around us. The street outside hums with life, people moving past in coats and scarves, steam curling from cups in gloved hands.
I wait until she’s halfway through her bagel before setting mine down and meeting her gaze. Its probably foolish, but I need to try once more. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re really back in Valleria?”
The change is instant. Her body tenses, her fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup.
Her gaze doesn’t meet mine. She doesn’t have to say anything. Whatever drove her away hurt more than she’s ready to admit, and it’s clear it hasn’t let her go. I reach across the table and gently lift her chin with two fingers, coaxing her to meet my eyes.
“Was it that bad?” My voice is quiet, rough. “Bad enough that you need to keep all your walls up?”
That earns a breathless laugh from her. “It was too good,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “That’s the problem.”
A tightness gathers in my chest. I want to pull at the thread she keeps so tightly wound, to make her unravel just enough to let me in, to trust me with whatever she’s carrying.
But then she leans back, reclaiming her space, retreating into a version of herself that’s polished, controlled, carefully put together. I let my hand drop, watching as she takes another sip of coffee, her face smoothing into indifference.
The moment slips away. I lean back and run my thumb along the edge of my coffee cup, watching her watch anything but me.
She shifts in her seat, fingers tracing an idle pattern against the ceramic. “I should get going,” she says, her voice carefully casual. “I have some things to take care of.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Like what?”
There’s a fraction of a pause. It’s small, but I catch it before she covers it with a shrug.
“Work,” she says lightly. “Emails. Calls. Important things.”
I narrow my eyes, unconvinced. “You? Prioritizing work over avoiding real-life responsibilities?”
She exhales, flashing a tight, almost playful smile, but I see the way she’s already preparing to escape. “I’m full of surprises,” she says, pushing back her chair. “Thanks for breakfast, Ethan.”
That should be it. But something about the way she says my name—too light, too easy, like last night never happened—grates against my nerves.
“You’re always running, aren’t you?” I say, my voice lower, testing.
She pauses, just for a second, but that’s all I get before she offers me a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders. “And yet, you always find me.”
She turns before I can respond, walking away with the same careless grace she always has, leaving me sitting there, staring after her, my coffee turning cold.
I watch until she disappears around the corner. Then I sit back, exhaling slowly, dragging a hand through my hair.
Ivy’s right. She’s a complication I don’t need, and yet, for the life of me, I can’t seem to stop chasing her.
Thankfully, there are other things in my agenda for the day.
Work comes first, so after finishing breakfast, I head home, take a quick shower, and get to work, to the hospital where everything makes sense.
By the time I step inside, I’ve already shed the rest of the world like a second skin.
My body moves on instinct—one foot in front of the other, my mind clicking into gear the second I check the board.
Multi-car collision. Two DOAs. One critical.
The last one is mine.
A woman in her forties, crushed between steel and impact, her ribs shattered, one lung collapsed, internal bleeding turning her abdomen into a goddamn war zone.
She’s barely clinging to consciousness when they wheel her in, her pulse a weak, flickering thing.
The kind of case where you either bring them back or lose them in your hands.
Not on my fucking watch.
I scrub in, tearing my gloves on, rolling my shoulders back as I step into the OR.
"Vitals?" I bark as I take my place.
"BP’s dropping—sixty over forty and falling," one of the nurses fires back.
I flick a glance at the monitor. Not good enough.
"Push another unit of blood. Get ready to intubate if she dips below sixty." I reach for the scalpel, bracing myself. "Let’s move."
The first cut is quick, slicing through skin and muscle, revealing the damage beneath. Blood wells up instantly, pooling in the cavity like dark ink spreading through water.
"Suction," I order, voice tight. "Clamp that artery before we lose her."
Surgical steel flashes under the blinding lights, hands moving quickly, precisely. I block everything else out—the frantic beeping of the monitors, the tension rippling through the room, the scents of antiseptic and sweat.
For two hours, we fight to keep her alive. And when I finally step back, breathing hard, heart pounding, she’s still here.
"Good work," someone says, but I barely hear them against the rush in my ears. Next, I review charts, do rounds, handle an overly ambitious intern who nearly botched a central line placement, then field a tense conversation with a family who doesn’t want to hear that their patriarch’s drinking has finally caught up with him.
Before I know it, it’s afternoon, and I’m meeting Drew for lunch. He’s already at the restaurant when I arrive, nursing a beer and scrolling through his phone. When he sees me, he stands, claps a firm hand on my shoulder, and grins.