Chapter 8 Max
MAX
Two weeks into January, and Max’s life had become a study in compartmentalization.
There was Work Max: professional, efficient, friendly with everyone, carefully neutral around Dr. Patel.
Work Max kept her distance, called her “Doctor” in that respectful tone as much as possible, never letting her eyes linger too long on the curve of Asha’s neck or the way her hands moved when she was explaining a procedure to a resident.
Tried her best to stop her thoughts from melting into the filthy, beautiful, and intense sex that took place every night between them.
And then there was Real Max: the one who knew what Asha looked like with her hair down and her guard lowered, who’d memorized the exact sound she made when Max kissed the spot just below her ear, who woke up at three in the morning with Asha curled against her side and felt like she’d finally found something worth keeping.
She couldn’t believe how serious Asha was at work, compared to the Asha she knew deep in the night.
The icy facade was truly fading in Max’s hands, and body.
The trick was keeping those two versions separate. Most days, Max managed it. Some days, it felt like trying to hold water in her hands.
She arrived for her Thursday evening shift at 6:52 PM, badge already out, mentally preparing for the performance.
The NICU was busy tonight—census up to eighteen, including two new admissions from the day shift.
Martha was at the station looking harried, and Juliette’s hair had shifted from violet to a shade of blue that reminded Max of Windex.
“Thank God you’re here,” Martha said without preamble. “Pod three needs a med check, pod five’s twins both need their IVs changed, and everyone keeps asking when Doctor Patel will be by”.
“I’ll handle pods three and five,” Max said, already pulling up the charts on the computer. “Is Doctor Patel here yet?”
“Just got in. She’s doing rounds with the resident in pod seven.” Martha paused, gave Max a look that was a little too knowing. “You two have been working really well together lately.”
Max’s heart skipped, but she kept her expression neutral. “She’s a good doctor.”
“Mm-hmm.” Martha didn’t push, but the look lingered.
Max busied herself with the charts, hyperaware of her own face, her own body language, the way she had to actively work not to look across the unit to where Asha’s voice drifted from behind a curtain—low, measured, explaining something to the resident with that particular blend of patience and precision that made Max’s chest ache.
Professional, Max reminded herself. We’re being professional.
She grabbed the med cart and headed to pod three.
An hour later, she was halfway through changing Baby Gomez’s IV when Asha appeared at her elbow.
“Nurse Benson.” Asha’s voice was perfectly clinical. “Do you have a moment to review the latest labs for Baby Liu?”
Max didn’t look up from the infant’s impossibly small arm, where she was securing the new IV line with practiced gentleness. “Give me two minutes to finish here.”
“Of course.”
But Asha didn’t leave. She stood close—not inappropriately close, but close enough that Max could smell that clean herbal scent of her soap that now lived in Max’s sheets and in her memory. Close enough that when Max shifted her weight, their shoulders almost brushed.
Max finished the IV, documented it, then followed Asha to the computer station. They stood side by side, both staring at the screen, and Max pulled up Baby Liu’s file.
“Glucose is 82,” Max said, keeping her voice steady and professional. “Down from 95 yesterday. Bilirubin is slightly elevated at 8.2, but still within acceptable range.”
“Agreed.” Asha leaned in to see the screen better, and her hand came to rest on the desk beside Max’s.
Their pinkies touched.
It was the smallest contact—barely noticeable to anyone watching—but Max felt it like an electric shock up her arm. Asha’s pinky hooked around hers, just for a second, a secret conversation conducted in the language they’d developed over stolen moments and careful touches.
Max’s breath caught. This was dangerous. Anyone could walk by. But she didn’t pull away.
“The trend looks stable,” Asha continued, her voice betraying nothing even as her finger pressed more firmly against Max’s. “Continue current feeding schedule and recheck in six hours.”
“Understood,” Max managed.
They stood there for another heartbeat, pretending to study data while their hands had an entirely different discussion. Max wanted to turn, wanted to kiss her, wanted to drag her into the supply closet and—
“Doctor Patel?”
They sprang apart like teenagers caught by a parent. Max’s heart shot into her throat.
Dr. Harrison stood fifteen feet away, clipboard tucked under one arm, expression neutral but observant. Max didn’t know how long he’d been there. Didn’t know what he’d seen.
“Doctor Harrison.” Asha’s voice was perfectly level, not even a tremor. “I didn’t realize you were on tonight.”
“Just checking on Baby Rodriguez. His parents requested an update before the weekend.” His gaze moved between them, lingering just a beat too long. “Is everything all right here?”
“Yes,” Asha said smoothly. “Nurse Benson and I were reviewing Baby Liu’s overnight labs. Everything’s stable.”
“Good, good.” Harrison nodded, but something in his eyes made Max’s stomach clench with anxiety. “Carry on, then.”
He walked away, footsteps measured and unhurried. Max stood frozen, staring at the computer screen without seeing it, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Beside her, Asha had gone very still. When Max glanced over, she saw that Asha’s face was pale, her jaw tight, the careful composure intact but her hands gripping the edge of the desk hard enough that her knuckles had gone white.
“Asha—” Max started, voice low.
“I should finish rounds,” Asha said, already stepping back. “Thank you for the update, Nurse Benson.”
She walked away quickly, spine straight, and Max was left standing alone at the computer, wondering if Harrison had seen anything, if he’d noticed, if their careful performance had already slipped.
The rest of the shift passed in a fog of anxiety.
Asha kept her distance—maintained that careful professional bubble that Max had learned to navigate but never liked.
They crossed paths during a code in pod six, worked together with their usual flawless synchronization to stabilize a baby whose oxygen levels had tanked, but even in the urgency of the moment, Asha wouldn’t meet her eyes.
By 2 AM, Max was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the work.
She pulled out her phone in the break room and texted, Are we okay?
The response came five minutes later. Yes. Just need to be more careful.
Max stared at the message, frustration and fear warring in her chest. She typed, Can we talk?
Later.
Max wanted to throw her phone across the room. Instead, she pocketed it and went back to work, trying to ignore the hollow feeling spreading through her ribs.
Friday night was supposed to be different.
Max spent the afternoon cleaning her apartment with nervous energy—vacuuming, doing dishes, changing the sheets even though Asha had said she probably wouldn’t stay over.
She picked up Thai food from the place on Sunset that Asha liked, set out wine glasses, and tried not to check her phone every thirty seconds.
Asha arrived at 7:08 PM, eight minutes late, which for her might as well have been an hour. She stood in the doorway in civilian clothes—dark jeans that fit her perfectly, a soft beige sweater, hair loose around her shoulders in waves that still took Max’s breath away every time.
“Hi,” Asha said, suddenly shy.
“Hey.” Max pulled her inside and kissed her properly, deeply, trying to communicate everything she couldn’t say at work. “I missed you.”
“It’s only been six hours,” Asha said, but she was smiling against Max’s mouth.
“Six hours too long. Six hours of trying to be professional when all I want to do is kiss you.”
They moved to the kitchen, where Max had already set out plates. Asha raised an eyebrow at the takeout containers. “You didn’t cook?”
“I value our relationship too much to poison you.” Max grinned. “Besides, this is from that place you like. The one with the good pad thai.”
Asha’s expression softened. “You remembered.”
“I remember everything about you.”
They ate on the couch, legs tangled together, sharing stories from their respective childhoods.
Asha told her about a disastrous Diwali dinner when she was twelve, where she’d tried to explain to her parents why she wanted to be a doctor instead of an engineer, and the conversation had ended with her mother crying and her father not speaking to her for three days.
“They came around eventually,” Asha said, twirling noodles around her fork. “But only after I got into medical school. And even then, I think they were disappointed I didn’t go into a ‘real’ specialty like cardiology or neurosurgery.”
“Saving premature babies isn’t real enough?” Max asked, incredulous.
“Not in my father’s hierarchy of medical prestige.” Asha shrugged, but Max could see the old hurt beneath the casual gesture.
Max told her about her own father leaving when she was fourteen, how her mother had worked double shifts at the hospital to keep them afloat. “She was a nurse too. ICU. That’s why I went into nursing—I wanted to be like her. Strong, capable, someone who made a difference.”
“You are,” Asha said softly. “You make a difference every day.”
The conversation drifted to lighter topics and the fact that Asha had never been to Disneyland.
“Wait, what?” Max set down her wine glass. “You’ve lived in California for how many years and you’ve never been to Disneyland?”
“I’ve been busy building my career!” Asha said defensively.