Chapter 6 Max
MAX
Three days. It had been three days since Christmas morning, since she’d stood outside the hospital in weak LA sunlight and kissed Dr. Asha Patel like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Three days of texting—casual at first, then increasingly vulnerable on Max’s end, increasingly terse on Asha’s.
Three days of wondering if she’d imagined the softness in Asha’s eyes, the tremor in her hands, the way she’d leaned in like she was falling.
Max swiped her badge at the employee entrance, the scanner beeping green, and pushed through the doors into the familiar smell of antiseptic and floor wax.
The Christmas decorations were mostly gone now, stripped away by Facilities as soon as possible.
Only a few rogue strands of tinsel clung to the railings, and someone had left a paper snowman taped to the pharmacy door, his arms still outstretched, smile slightly crumpled.
She took the stairs as needed to burn off the nervous energy, and emerged on the fifth floor slightly breathless, her heart already doing something complicated and unhelpful in her chest.
The NICU was back to its normal rhythm: no holiday chaos, no cocoa cart, just the steady noise of monitors and the soft shuffle of the evening shift settling in.
Martha was at the nurses’ station, squinting at a medication order.
Juliette, whose hair was now a shade of violet that defied nature, was restocking gloves in pod three.
And there, standing at the far end of the hallway with a clipboard and her usual posture of perfect composure, was Asha.
Max felt the air leave her lungs.
Asha looked exactly as she always did—scrubs pressed, lab coat immaculate, hair twisted into that severe bun that somehow made her look both untouchable and devastating.
Max approached with what she hoped was a casual stride, though her hands felt clumsy and her face too warm. She stopped a few feet away, close enough to speak quietly.
“Hey,” Max said, and the word came out softer than she intended, almost tentative.
Asha glanced up from her chart. For a heartbeat, something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe, or want—but it was gone so fast Max might have imagined it.
“Good evening, Nurse Benson.” Asha’s voice was cool, clinical, the tone she used for shift reports and protocol reviews.
Max’s smile faltered. “I thought maybe we could—”
“I need these labs reviewed within the hour,” Asha interrupted, holding out a stack of printouts without quite meeting Max’s eyes. “Baby Rodriguez’s bilirubin is trending up. We may need to restart phototherapy.”
Max took the papers, her fingers brushing Asha’s for a fraction of a second. Asha pulled back like she’d touched something hot.
“Asha—” Max started, keeping her voice low.
“Doctor Patel,” Asha corrected, and this time her tone had an edge. Then, softer but no warmer: “Please. Let’s maintain appropriate workplace conduct.”
She turned and walked away, her footsteps brisk and silent, leaving Max standing there with a stack of lab results and the sudden, sinking feeling that she’d made a terrible mistake.
The hours crawled.
Max threw herself into her rounds, checking vitals, updating charts, cooing at the babies who were awake and fussing.
She helped Mrs. Chen position her son for kangaroo care, the tiny boy nestled against his mother’s chest, skin to skin.
She changed IV bags, charted medications, and made herself useful in all the small, mechanical ways that usually grounded her.
But her attention kept snagging on Asha, who moved through the unit like a ghost. She seemed present but untouchable, efficient but remote.
At 9 PM, they ended up at the same computer, both needing to update the same patient’s chart. Max was mid-sentence when Asha appeared at her elbow, close enough that Max could smell her soap—something clean and faintly herbal, the same scent that had clung to Max’s clothes after the kiss.
“I need to add an order,” Asha said, her voice flat.
“Yeah, just—give me one second.” Max finished typing, then reached for the mouse to scroll down.
Asha reached for it at the same time.
Their hands collided—just knuckles and fingertips, barely a touch—but Asha jerked back like she’d been burned. The mouse clattered against the desk.
“Excuse me,” Asha murmured, and walked away before Max could respond.
Max stared at the screen, her hand still hovering over the mouse, and felt something crack open in her chest. She’d seen Asha’s hand trembling. Just for a second, but it had been there—visible, undeniable.
She feels it too, Max thought. So why is she doing this?
At 10:30, protocol dragged them together again.
High-risk medication check: two nurses required to verify the dosage, the patient, the timing. Max had drawn up the dose for Baby Leo—a micro-preemie with a heart condition—and needed a second set of eyes before administration.
Asha appeared beside her without being asked, as if she’d been monitoring Max’s movements from across the unit.
They stood shoulder to shoulder at the med cart, the vial between them, the syringe held up to the light. Max read the label aloud, her voice steady. Asha confirmed the dosage, her tone equally controlled.
But they were close. Too close for comfort; close enough that Max could see the faint shadows under Asha’s eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers gripped the edge of the cart just a little too tightly.
Max finished the verification, signed the log, and turned to face her. “Asha—”
“That will be all, thank you,” Asha said, already stepping back, already rebuilding the wall.
Max watched her go, frustration building like pressure behind her ribs.
By 11:45, Max was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the shift.
She was checking vitals in pod four. Baby Jones, stable and gaining weight, finally off the vent. And then she felt it: the weight of someone’s gaze, heavy and deliberate.
She looked up.
Asha stood across the unit, half-hidden in the doorway to pod seven, staring at her.
Their eyes locked.
For three full seconds, Asha’s mask slipped. Max saw everything: the longing, the conflict, the fear. It was written across her face like a language Max was only just learning to read.
Then someone called Asha’s name—one of the residents, urgent and oblivious—and the moment shattered. Asha turned away, her expression smoothing back into professionalism, and disappeared into the pod.
Max’s hands shook as she finished the vitals check. Her pulse was loud in her ears.
She does feel it. She’s just terrified.
The realization didn’t comfort her. If anything, it made everything worse—because if Asha felt the same pull, the same ache, and was choosing to push Max away, what did that mean? That fear was stronger than want? That Max wasn’t worth the risk?
She set down the chart and walked to the break room, needing a moment alone, needing to breathe.
But she only made it halfway.
The supply closet door was cracked open, light spilling into the dim hallway. Max saw Asha slip inside, clipboard in hand, shoulders tight.
Max didn’t think. She just followed.
The door clicked shut behind her. The space was small and fluorescent-bright, shelves of supplies crowding the walls. Asha stood in the center, her back to the door, and when she turned, her expression was startled.
“Nurse Benson, I’m in the middle of—”
“Stop,” Max said, and her voice came out harder than she intended. “Just stop. We need to talk.”
Asha’s jaw set, her chin lifting in that way she did when she was preparing for battle. “There’s nothing to discuss. We have work to do.”
“We kissed.” Max took a step closer, her frustration finally spilling over. “Three days ago, outside this hospital, we kissed. And it wasn’t nothing. I know it wasn’t. Why are you pretending it never happened?”
Asha’s hand tightened on the clipboard. “It was clearly a mistake.”
“Bullshit.”
The word landed between them like a slap. Asha flinched, just slightly, and for a second Max saw her—really saw her—beneath the armor: scared, fragile, human.
“We were exhausted,” Asha said, her voice quieter now but no less controlled. “The shift was emotional. People do things they don’t mean when—”
“You don’t kiss someone like that by accident,” Max interrupted, stepping closer still. “I felt it, Asha. And I know you did too. You can’t deny it when it’s so obvious.”
The use of her first name made Asha’s breath catch. Her knuckles went white against the clipboard.
“I can’t,” Asha whispered, and the word came out cracked, broken. “Max, I can’t go any further with this.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Asha’s voice wavered. She looked away, staring at the wall of sterile supplies as if they held answers. “This is my career. My reputation. Everything I’ve worked for. If people find out, if we—” She stopped, unable to finish.
Max felt her anger softening, melting into something gentler. She took a breath, forced herself to speak calmly. “I’m not asking you to announce it to the whole hospital. I’m not asking you to be reckless.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“To be honest,” Max said simply. “With me. With yourself. To stop pretending you don’t feel this. At least acknowledge what actually fucking happened.”
The silence stretched, thick and charged. Asha looked like she was fighting a war inside herself, every muscle tense, every defense crumbling piece by piece.
“You want honesty? I’m terrified,” Asha finally admitted, so quietly Max almost didn’t hear it.
Her eyes were too bright, her voice raw.
“I don’t know how to do this. How to be.
.. this vulnerable. That part of me is wrapped up and locked away and you just brought something out that I’m not ready to feel. ”
Her pager went off, shrill and insistent in the small space.
Asha looked down at it, then back up at Max, and the moment fractured. The walls slammed back into place, visible and immediate.