Anya
Trauma Two hit the bay like a dropped tray of instruments — loud, sudden, impossible to ignore.
Motorcycle versus guardrail. No helmet. Hypotensive, combative, bleeding from too many places at once — the type of injury that turned the room chaotic the second the gurney crossed the threshold.
Voices layered over one another, hands moving on instinct, muscle memory snapping into place as if we’d all been wound too tight and finally released.
I was already gloved when Desmond stepped in.
He didn’t rush. He never did. He absorbed the chaos the way a seasoned swimmer reads a rip current — eyes sweeping the monitors, the patient, the floor already slick with blood — before his gaze found me and settled there.
It lingered half a second too long, long enough for my pulse to notice, long enough for something to tighten low in my chest. Sleeves rolled, posture easy, expression sharp and unreadable in that way that always made it feel like he knew exactly how this would end.
“Alright,” he said, calm as a metronome. “Let’s work.”
I took the head of the bed without thinking, already focused. “Airway’s questionable,” I called out, leaning in as the patient thrashed weakly beneath the restraints.
Desmond drifted closer, hands clasped behind his back as if this were a lecture hall and not controlled chaos. “You want it?”
I glanced up at him, catching the glint in his eye that had nothing to do with medicine. “You offering to do it?”
One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Hell no, it should be clean.” A nurse snorted. Another suddenly found the far wall fascinating.
I leaned back over the patient and slid the laryngoscope in. Bloody. Swollen. Tricky in that way that demanded precision and patience, not force. My world narrowed to the airway, to the familiar calm that always came when I was exactly where I was supposed to be. “I’ve got cords,” I said.
“I know,” Desmond replied mildly, and I could hear the smile in it. “You get that look when you’re about to show off.”
I flicked my eyes up at him, exaggeratedly offended even as my hands stayed steady. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” he said, lifting a gloved finger and gesturing vaguely at my face. “Right there. That little crease between your brows.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. Quick. Childish. Entirely inappropriate.
His eyes darkened instantly, something warm and unmistakably pleased flickering there before he masked it. “Careful,” he murmured, voice pitched just low enough that it felt like it was meant only for me. “We’re surrounded by witnesses.”
“Then stop flirting with me during a trauma,” I shot back, advancing the tube with a smooth, controlled motion.
“I’m supervising my emergency department,” he said smoothly. “If it sounds like flirting, Doctor Volkov, that’s on you.”
“In,” I said.
“Confirmed,” respiratory called.
Desmond leaned in then, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine — deliberate, unnecessary, grounding. He lowered his voice once more. “Absolutely textbook,” he said. “God, you look good when you’re focused.”
My pulse jumped so hard I nearly laughed, the sound bubbling dangerously close to the surface.
“Vitals?” I asked, voice perfectly even, professional to the bone.
“Improving,” a nurse replied. “Nice save.”
Desmond straightened, authority snapping back into place like a jacket he wore easily. He nodded once. “Of course they are.”
As I sutured, I felt his attention on me again — not staring, not invasive. Assessing. Appreciative in a way that felt like hands I wasn’t allowed to feel, like a touch that existed only in implication. It made my skin hum. “Don’t rush,” he said.
“I’m not,” I replied without looking up. “You just like watching me work.”
A beat. Long enough to notice. Long enough to feel. “I won’t deny that,” he said.
I glanced up then, needle poised. He met my eyes — and winked.
Actually winked.
My breath hitched traitorously. “You’re distracting me.”
“And you’re blushing,” he said softly, just for me. “Which is adorable, but very unprofessional.”
I leaned closer to the patient, pretending to focus harder than I already was. “If you distract me and I miss a stitch, that’s on you.”
He stepped closer again, threading his words right under my ribs. “I have complete faith in your hands, Doctor Volkov.”
A nurse cleared her throat pointedly. We both froze. Then Desmond smiled — polite, charming, harmless enough to pass inspection. “How are we doing?”
“Stable,” she said, eyes flicking between us. “But you two are… intense.”
I didn’t look up. “It’s all him,” I said. “He’s a walking HR violation.”
As the gurney rolled out, Desmond brushed past me, close enough that his sleeve grazed my wrist. The contact was brief, electric, gone before I could decide whether it was accidental.
“Still no touching,” he murmured.
“Tragic,” I said.
His laugh was quiet. Rough. Entirely for me. “Try to behave,” he added.
I finally looked at him. “You should lead by example, Dr. Vaughn.”