Anya
It didn't dawn on me until the room emptied.
The monitors steadied. The tray was cleared. Someone clapped me on the shoulder and said something I didn't quite catch. And then, all at once, my hands started to shake.
Not fear. Not anymore, it was just… the aftermath. Remnants of adrenaline.
I’d only been working the night shift for about four days. Before my switch to nights, Doctor Vaughn and I had crossed paths before on rare occasions, but he’d never… instructed me.
And never like he just had.
Doctor Patel had been my direct report for the last year and a half of my residency. And… I must have pulled the shortest of all the sticks, because I was the youngest resident. Or… that’s not entirely true.
But the other residents my age were also men.
I’d never outright say that this was the reason Frank Patel had it out for me, but… it certainly felt like it.
I stepped back from the table and nearly misjudged the distance, my heel catching on the edge of the mat. Dr. Vaughn was there instantly, a steady presence at my back, his hand hovering just shy of my elbow again.
The adrenaline was still singing in my bloodstream, sharp and electric; my hands faintly trembling now that there was nothing left to hold together.
We had stabilized, transferred, and charted the patient.
The chaos had drained out of the trauma bay, leaving just fluorescent light and the echo of everything that had almost gone wrong.
He pulled off his gloves slowly as if he wasn’t in a rush to rejoin the world. He’d walked me through the whole thing — low voice at my shoulder, steady and unflinching.
“You’re good.”
“Breathe.”
“Trust your hands.”
Every instruction had felt less like supervision and more like alignment. Like we were moving in the same current.
He stepped closer to toss his gloves, and I felt it again — that disorienting awareness of how large he was in a small space.
Tall enough that the overhead lights caught in the dark scruff along his jaw.
Broad enough that when he stood beside me, the room seemed to reorganize around him.
“Are you alright?” He asked, head tilted as he watched me waver.
His shoulders filled out the navy of his uniform, fabric stretched across muscle earned from lifting bodies and carrying weight without complaint. There was a faint sheen of sweat at his temples, a strand of greying hair falling loose across his forehead.
I managed a nod.
He looked serious. He always looked serious. But up close, it wasn’t hardness. It was focus. The kind that wrapped around you instead of cutting. “You did good, Dr. Volkov,” he said quietly. “It’s over. You're done.”
Done. The word landed strangely and hollow. My pulse was still racing, my skin too tight, my thoughts foggy around the edges for a word like done. The room felt too bright now, too loud, like my senses hadn't caught up with reality yet.
I exhaled, slow and shaky. My knees felt unreliable.
Vaughn angled his body just enough to block the doorway, not trapping me, just… creating space. His voice dropped, gentler now, meant only for me.
“That’d be the adrenaline crash,” he said, lips turned up in a gentle smile. “Perfectly normal.”
I nodded, though I wasn't sure I trusted myself to speak. My fingers curled reflexively, like they were still holding forceps.
“You did very well,” he added, and this time there was no urgency in it. No command, just quiet praise.
Something about that — about being seen after the fact, not during — made my throat tighten. I pressed my lips together and focused on breathing, on not swaying.
He waited. Didn't rush me. Didn't fill the silence. He just stayed close enough that I could feel the warmth of him beside me, solid and real.
After a moment, he said, almost casually, “Give it thirty seconds. Then walk. Not before.”
I followed his instructions without thinking. Of course I did. When I finally looked up at him, his expression was careful, controlled, but his eyes were still on me in that steady way that made my chest ache.
“There she is,” he murmured.
The adrenaline had burned off, but the awareness hadn't. If anything, it was sharper now. Quieter. More dangerous.
He steered me toward the sink with the lightest pressure at my back, not quite a touch, but close enough that I felt guided. The stainless steel was cool under my palms when I braced myself there, head bowed, breathing finally normalizing.
“Wash your hands,” he said, already turning on the tap. He waited until the stream ran cold, then angled it just right. “Take a beat, Doctor Volkov.”
I rinsed my hands, watching diluted soap spiral down the drain. My fingers were still trembling uncontrollably. I hated that part. Hated how visible it felt.
Dr. Vaughn noticed anyway. Of course he did.
“Hey,” he said quietly. Not a command this time, just enough to grab my attention. “You're allowed to feel it now.”
I swallowed and nodded, focusing on the sensation of the water, the grounding cold. He handed me a towel without looking at me directly, as if he just knew eye contact might be too much just yet.
“Drink,” he added, nudging a cup toward me.
I did. Too fast at first, then slower when he tipped it back down with two fingers against the rim. That touch — brief, precise — sent a shiver straight up my arm.
“There you go,” he whispered.
“Sorry,” I muttered, feeling the tell-tale sign of a flush creep up my neck.
“For what, Doctor Volkov?” And he was… smiling.
“For choking, for needing help.” I waved my hand in the air between us in an attempt at nonchalance. It didn’t help that my fingers still held on to the last bit of nerves. “It was a simple procedure. I just—”
“Hey,” his fingers hooked underneath my chin, forcing me to meet his steady gaze. “Even I freeze sometimes.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.” And the laugh that left his mouth did wonders to ease my nerves. Like this was second nature to him… to us. “But I’ve been doing this for almost three decades, Volkov. You get sort of… desensitized.”
I straightened, finally, and for a second it was just us in that narrow space. The noise of the ER dulled, as if the world had politely stepped back. He looked down at me, expression unreadable but intent, as if he were still monitoring vitals only he could see.
“You stayed calm when it mattered,” he said. “That's not skill, Anya. That's instinct.” The praise landed deeper than it should have. I’m… not sure the last time an attending had praised me. I opened my mouth to respond—
“Dr. Vaughn.”
The voice cut through the moment like a scalpel.
A nurse stood a few feet away, chart in hand, eyes flicking between us with a professional neutrality that somehow made everything feel exposed. “Since you're finally here, Trauma Two’s asking for you. And CT's backed up.”
He stepped back immediately. Space returned. Distance. The spell broke cleanly, like it had never existed at all. “I'll be right there,” he said, tone shifting seamlessly back into attending mode. Then, softer, just for me: “You're good. Take five before your next case.”
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and was gone, swallowed by the noise and movement and urgency.
I stood there a moment longer, towel still clutched in my hands, pulse steadying but awareness humming under my skin.
The adrenaline was gone, but the imprint of him was not.