Chapter 6 Damian
DAMIAN
Nine Months Later
The emergency department smells of antiseptic and burnt coffee.
It’s midnight-adjacent, which means the waiting room is full of minor disasters and one looming major one.
Flu symptoms. A fractured wrist. A kid with a split eyebrow.
A man with indigestion who thinks it’s a heart attack.
The rhythm of it settles into me the way it always does—the low hum of urgency, the choreography of controlled chaos.
This is where I belong.
I’m halfway through reviewing labs when I feel the shift behind me. Meron Firestone doesn’t walk into a room quietly. He occupies it. Even in scrubs, he carries himself like a man who expects deference.
It used to amuse me. Now it just irritates me.
“Baylock,” he says, voice clipped. “You’re late on a patient in three.”
“I’m not,” I reply without looking up. “Radiology’s backed up. I’ve already called them twice.”
He hums, unimpressed, leaning against the counter like he’s inspecting a subordinate instead of a colleague. “You always did like excuses.”
There was a time when that tone would’ve made me laugh. When we would’ve gone for drinks after a shift and dissected impossible cases until two in the morning. We were friends once. Best friends, depending on who you ask.
Before the slow realization that my marriage was ending in ways that didn’t feel accidental. Best friends, as it turns out, have a way of wedging themselves into places they’re not wanted.
I finally look at him. “Is there something you need?”
His mouth twitches like he’s considering saying something personal and then thinking better of it. Or worse of it. “I just think it’s interesting that you insisted on coming back to the ED after everything.”
“Everything,” I repeat evenly.
He shrugs. “Amber wonders how long it’ll be before you get tired of being here, since we’re engaged now.”
Engaged? Last I heard, they were just dating. Hooray. I sometimes wonder how long they were “finding” each other before my marriage ended.
“Congratulations.” The word comes out flatter than I intend.
His smile thins. “I’m worried about the department, Baylock. If you don’t get your act together, survive our engagement, it’ll reflect poorly on all of us.”
“Get my act together? I’m not the one who started nailing his co-worker’s wife.”
He pushes off the counter, straightening. “Triage just called. Pregnant woman. Active labor. Off you go.”
Not surprised he can’t admit to it. “We’re not equipped for L&D.”
“We’re equipped to manage emergencies. Or have you forgotten?”
Of course I haven’t. I just don’t want the case. Labor isn’t my specialty. Trauma is. Cardiac events. The sharp edge of catastrophe. Delivering babies feels…predictable. Almost routine. Soft.
He’s reassigning me to piss me off, and we both know it. “You can handle it,” he says mildly. “Unless you’d prefer something less…domestic.”
I meet his eyes. “I’ll take it.”
“Good.” He turns away before I can respond.
I watch him go, irritation simmering low and steady. He enjoys assigning me cases like this. Enjoys testing whether I’ll push back.
Patients don’t deserve ego battles, so I suck it up.
A nurse rushes up beside me. “Room six is yours. She’s at seven centimeters and not happy about it.”
I nod once and head down the hall.
Room six is loud. Not chaotic, but loud in the way labor rooms always are. Focused urgency. A woman breathing through pain. A nurse issuing calm instructions like she’s reading from a script she’s memorized a thousand times.
I step inside and immediately clock the scene.
A young mother in her mid-twenties. Dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Honey-brown eyes, sharp despite the strain. She’s here alone. She grips the side rails like she’s personally offended by the concept of contractions.
I don’t blame her. I would be too, in her position.
“Doctor,” the nurse says quickly. “This is Temperance Lawson. Contractions three minutes apart. She’s progressing fast.”
Temperance Lawson. The name registers somewhere in the back of my mind, but I don’t linger on it. I step to the bedside, professional voice sliding into place.
“Ms. Lawson,” I begin, calm, measured. “I’m Dr. Baylock. You’re doing—”
“Perry,” she snaps, breathing hard through the end of a contraction. “My name is Perry. And I want drugs right the fuck now.”
The nurse bites back a smile.
“Perry,” I correct smoothly. “We can get anesthesia in here for an epidural, but you’re progressing quickly. It may not take full effect.”
“Then hurry,” she growls, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. “Because I am not doing this naturally.”
Despite myself, I almost laugh. There’s fire in her. Sharp edges, even in pain. I’ve seen women fold inward during labor, go quiet and distant. She does the opposite—leans into it, fights it.
“Call anesthesia,” I tell the nurse. “And page neonatal. Just in case.”
“Just in case?” Perry echoes.
“Twins,” the nurse supplies.
Perry closes her eyes briefly. “Oh my God.”
I raise a brow. “You didn’t know?”
“I knew,” she pants. “I just forgot for a second.”
The contraction hits again. She curses fluently and creatively. I step back, giving the anesthesiologist room as he enters, moving through the practiced motions. I monitor vitals, watch for complications, mind shifting fully into clinical mode.
This is what Meron meant. This is what he thinks I consider beneath me.
He’s wrong. It isn’t beneath me. It’s just different.
The epidural goes in cleanly. Within minutes, the edge of her pain dulls. Her breathing evens. The tension in her shoulders loosens.
“Better?” I ask.
She exhales long and shaky. “I want to marry that man.”
“He’s taken,” I reply dryly.
She cracks one eye open, studying me properly for the first time. Recognition flickers across her face—too quick to pin down, too subtle to question—but it’s there. A measuring look. Then it’s gone.
“You’re very calm,” she says.
“I get paid to be.”
She huffs a breath that might be a laugh. “Figures.”
The monitor shifts, and progress continues. Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just life, arriving on schedule. I’ve never known a multiple birth to go this smoothly, but I’ll take it. I step into position as the first twin crowns. “Alright, Perry. You’re ready.”
“No, I’m not.” She grips the rails again, jaw set. “But let’s get this over with anyway.”
It’s not long before there’s a strong cry and a healthy weight announced over the cry. The second follows quickly, a little more stubborn but just as healthy. Two boys.
I hand them off to the nurses for assessment and look back at Perry. She’s exhausted. Glowing in that strange, stunned way new mothers are. Eyes glassy but alert.
“You did good,” I tell her quietly.
For a second, she just looks at me, and something in her expression shifts. Something I can’t quite name. Her voice is hollow and depleted. “Thanks.”
The room quiets in stages.
First, the sharp cries soften into hiccupping newborn breaths.
Then the monitors settle into steady rhythms. Nurses move with practiced efficiency—fundal massage (which also earns Perry’s curses), swaddling, charting, checking reflexes.
The adrenaline drains from the space, leaving behind that strange, fragile stillness that follows birth.
Perry looks smaller now.
Not physically—she’s still sharp-featured, still watchful—but the fight in her has shifted into something else. Relief. Awe, maybe. One of the nurses places the first baby in her arms, and the transformation is immediate.
Her mouth softens. Her shoulders drop. The sharp edges I saw an hour ago round out. “Hi, little guy.”
“You’ve got two healthy boys,” I tell her. “Strong lungs. Good tone. No complications.”
She nods, staring down at them like she’s memorizing their faces. “That’s…good.”
“That’s very good.”
The second baby is settled against her other side. The symmetry of it—two small bodies tucked against her—does something unexpected to my chest. I’ve delivered dozens of babies. It shouldn’t feel new, but it does. Every time.
She glances up at me again. “You look disappointed.”
I blink. “Disappointed?”
“Like you were hoping for something dramatic.”
I hesitate, then chuckle under my breath. “I prefer trauma,” I admit. “Higher stakes. Faster decisions.”
“And this wasn’t high stakes?” she asks, arching a tired brow.
“Not in the same way.”
She studies me for a long second, eyes sharper than they should be for someone who just pushed out two human beings. “Sometimes,” she says quietly, “the slow stuff matters more.”
I can’t argue with that. “It does.”
There’s that flicker again—that almost-recognition. Like she’s trying to place me somewhere outside this room.
I have to ask, “Do I know you from somewhere? Outside of the hospital, I mean. Snow Valley is a small town, but—”
“I don’t think so,” she says before yawning. “But you look familiar to me too. Déjà vu, maybe?”
“Maybe. Do you go to Carlton’s on Fifth? The coffeeshop—”
“Yeah, sometimes. Maybe we saw each other there.” She half shrugs before turning her attention to the bundles in her arms. The nurse interrupts to adjust IV lines, and I step back, giving them space.
My job here is nearly done. Mother stable. Infants stable. No hemorrhaging. No distress. Boring, as these things go. But a boring birth is the best kind.
I check her chart one last time. Temperance Lawson. No partner listed. Emergency contact blank. Insurance through a small marketing firm in the city. Nothing remarkable.
“You’ll be transferred upstairs once a room opens,” I tell her. “We’ll monitor you for a few hours.”
She nods absently, still staring at the twins. As I turn to leave, she says, “Doctor.”
I glance back.
“Thank you,” she adds.
“You did the hard part,” I reply.
Her lips curve faintly. “Yeah. But you made it easier. Thanks for that.”
“Happy to, Perry.” I step out into the hallway, the door swinging closed behind me. The ED noise crashes back in—phones ringing, a nurse calling for labs, a stretcher rolling past at speed, a patient shouting for their meds.
Once more into the breech…
I head toward Meron’s office, irritation rising again now that the adrenaline has settled.
I didn’t want the case—but that’s not why I’m going.
I want to tell him to stop assigning patients like he’s testing me.
This bullshit’s gone far enough. I’m done playing his games.
He can treat me like everyone else. He’s done it before.
I knock once and push the door open. Empty. His jacket is gone. His computer is dark. A note sits on the desk, scribbled quickly: Left early. You’ve got the floor.
I stare at it for a long moment. Then I laugh. Of course he fucking did.
For a moment, I just stand there in Meron’s empty office, staring at the note like it might rearrange itself into something less predictable.
I crumple the paper and drop it into the trash, irritation simmering but contained. He enjoys this—it’s another part of his game. If something goes wrong, it’s my shift. My call. My name on the chart.
Fine.
I step back into the hallway, already shifting gears. The ED board glows at the nurses’ station—two ambulances inbound, one chest pain in triage, a psych consult escalating. The rhythm tightens instantly.
“Dr. Baylock,” one of the nurses calls. “You’re primary tonight?”
“Looks like it,” I reply.
There’s a ripple of acknowledgment. They’ve worked with me long enough to know I don’t flinch when things stack up, and they’ve worked with Meron long enough to know how he fucks off whenever he wants because department heads can do whatever they want. Apparently.
“Room three’s ready for reassessment,” another nurse says. “And EMS is five minutes out.”
“Got it.”
I move, mind clearing, irritation with Meron dissolving into something more productive. This is what I prefer—the immediacy of it, the need for decisiveness. No politics. Just problems and solutions.
Still, as I wash my hands outside room three, an image flashes uninvited into my mind. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. The way Perry looked at me when I told her she did good. That flicker of recognition.
I shake it off. I must have seen her at Carlton’s. She’s pretty enough that I would have noticed her there. Or anywhere. Hell, even halfway through delivering twins, she was beautiful. Sweaty and red-faced and beautiful. It makes sense that her face would have stuck in my memory.
The patient with chest pain is stable. Labs pending. EKG borderline but not alarming. I adjust meds, speak in the same calm, measured tone I always use. Confidence steadies people. Even when you’re the one running on fumes.
The hours blur the way they always do on overnight shifts. An overdose reversed. A laceration stitched. A teenager reassured that their mom is going to be okay after a car accident. Somewhere around three in the morning, the waiting room finally thins.
I grab coffee that I will regret and lean against the counter for the first time all night.
Meron and Amber. Engaged. The thought returns, uninvited but persistent. I almost feel sorry for him—almost. Being engaged to Amber requires stamina. Requires a tolerance for scrutiny and control that most men don’t recognize until it’s too late.
Also, I have the hardest time picturing Meron being intimate with her. Amber, for all her flaws, has a predatory vibe that works well in the bedroom. Like she’ll devour a man whole if she wants to.
Meron has all the sexual charisma of an old dishrag, so I have the overwhelming urge to shudder in disgust when I think of them so much as kissing.
But then I remember the quiet distance that crept into my marriage before it officially ended. The late meetings. The sudden absences. The way Meron stopped meeting my eyes before everything fell apart.
Those memories drain all the pity I had for him a moment ago.