FOURTEEN
JORDIE
The automatic doors hiss open as Team B’s rotation ends, and I swear every cell in my body files a formal complaint.
We spill out of theatre in that strange, post-crisis stagger where no one is quite upright in spirit anymore.
Scrub caps come off. Gloves hit bins. Somebody stretches and makes a noise so awful it sounds skeletal.
It’s less “we made it” and more “we have survived another medically sanctioned descent into hell.”
“Well,” the scrub nurse mutters, “that was a tragic misuse of human brain cells.”
“Gunshot wound to the leg,” one of the techs says, exhausted. “Because, and I quote, ‘I wanted to look badass in the photo.’”
“At least he got his wish,” I say. “He’s famous now. For being a moron.”
“Stupidity is a flex,” Callum says dryly, rubbing at his temples. “There’s probably a podcast for it.”
Laughter ripples through the group as we trickle out, splitting off to scavenge downtime wherever we can. One of the techs immediately claims an abandoned stretcher in the back bays. Some find their way to the on-call rooms. Others head toward the fire escape to watch the cyclone.
Me? I just want food.
Callum and I are the last ones trudging to the staff room. The fridge door looms like a harbinger of disappointment.
And sure enough—soggy sandwiches, possibly haunted yogurt cups, an unmarked Tupperware that looks like it’s lived through several generations of shifts, and two frozen mac and cheeses with expiration dates that might as well say “YOLO.”
I hold one up like it’s a dead rat. “This is not going to cut it.”
Callum raises an eyebrow. “What’s your plan, then? Drive to Macca’s?”
I snort, shove the sad excuse of a meal back into the fridge, and march to the counter with purpose.
Communal bread loaf: acquired. Callum, clearly thinking the same thing, watches as I load four slices into the toaster and press the lever down with the solemn determination of someone who hasn’t eaten in days.
The smell of warming bread fills the small space, and I swear I feel my stomach curl in on itself.
Finally, the toast pops up. I grab two slices, and Callum, the other two.
Peanut butter: check. Most importantly, I retrieve my trusty Sriracha bottle from my bag. I drizzle a generous amount of hot sauce over my peanut butter toast and take a bite.
Satisfaction: instant.
I catch Callum staring.
“What?” I ask, mouth full.
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches into his bag, produces an identical bottle of Sriracha, and sets it next to mine with quiet solemnity.
I blink.
“No way,” I whisper it as if I’ve just stumbled upon some cosmic secret.
“Didn’t know there was another human being who did this.” He takes a spoonful of peanut butter and dollops it onto the center of his bread.
I point my toast at him, accusatory. “Here I was, thinking you lunched on Michelin-star soufflés.”
He drizzles an alarming amount of hot sauce. “And I thought you survived on black coffee and stubbornness.”
Grinning, I prop my elbow on the counter. “Didn’t peg your uptight persona for someone who can actually handle spice.”
He rolls his eyes, squirting another reckless amount of Sriracha. “I grew up in a Chinese restaurant, Mitchell. We used chili oil like it were tap water.”
I pause mid-bite, my toast hovering just in front of my mouth. I hadn’t expected that. Not that I spend much time thinking about Callum Han’s upbringing, but it’s . . . surprising. Not in a bad way. Just in a huh kind of way.
I gesture to his toast, now more Sriracha than peanut butter. “Explains why you’re not crying.”
Callum hums, chewing. “Still considering it. But my pride won’t let me.”
We finish our award-winning meal and drift to opposite corners of the staff room. Silence settles—easy, unspoken. Callum reviews emergency cases at the table. I claim a spot by the window, book in hand, fully intending to read.
Instead, I watch the storm.
Rain slants against the glass in restless silver streaks. The floodlights catch each droplet for a heartbeat before it vanishes into the dark. Like sparks. Like something alive.
I lean in, pressing my forehead to the cool glass. The world narrows to this moment: the glow of the streetlamp, the hush of the downpour, the wind rattling the windows.
“What are you doing?”
Callum’s voice cuts through the quiet, threaded with curiosity and exhaustion.
“Observing rain over the lights,” I say, raising an eyebrow like it’s obvious.
His expression is skeptical, maybe a little intrigued. “It’s rain.”
“No.” I gesture with the flourish of a magician. “It’s light cutting through rain. Big difference.”
He stands there for a beat, clearly unsure whether I’m screwing with him. His skepticism is practically an aura.
I scoff, shifting to make room beside me. “Come here.”
His hesitation is visible, but eventually, he sighs and steps forward. I make a point to move so that he takes my exact spot, the best vantage point.
For once, Callum doesn’t argue. He does as I say and sits in my spot.
“Just look,” I instruct. “Give it a second.”
His gaze follows the rainfall—steady, hypnotic. The stutter of the streetlamp. The way the light bends, catches, and disappears.
I watch him watching it. The way his eyes trace the movement. The quiet shift in his expression, brows relaxing, the sharp lines of exhaustion tempering at the edges.
“It’s kind of beautiful, right?” I murmur.
He nods, watching. “Yeah.” A pause. “You always do this?”
“When there’s a good storm.”
Truth is, I used to be terrified of cyclones.
But Dad used to say, “Storms only take what’s not built to last, JoJo.” He said it as though it were fact. As though storms weren’t violent, roof-ripping, tree-twisting monsters. And I believed him. Because he said it like a man who knew.
When I blink back into the present, Callum is watching me. A little bit curious. He looks at me the way someone might when they know you’ve just returned from somewhere else entirely.
A deep rumble of thunder rolls through the sky, low and distant.
“You’re right. It’s nice,” Callum says eventually, stretching as he stands. “But I’m going to catch a nap before we’re summoned back into the ninth circle.” He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “You good here by yourself?”
I scoff, waving him off. “I’m fine, Callum. It’s just a bit of weather.”
“Sure.” He snorts as he grabs his bag and pushes open the door. He’s barely three steps into the hallway when—
CRACK.
A blinding flash of lightning splits the sky.
I let out an undignified shriek.
The lights stutter, buzz, and blink out, plunging the room into momentary blackness before the emergency lighting casts everything in an eerie glow.
The generators kick in and the power stabilizes.
I find Callum leaning back against the doorframe, arms crossed, with a too-teasing grin.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he says, too innocent.
Another flash. Another flicker. Another shriek from me.
“Alright,” I say quickly, “I’ll go with you.”
Still chuckling, he waves me ahead. “Come on, Goblin Queen. Before you give yourself a heart attack.”
I grumble, but follow him out.