FORTY-SIX
JORDIE
I’ve decided that my life post–Alec Carter’s resurrection will not be forfeit to hell.
I will be professional. Will work to the best of my ability. Will flirt shamelessly with the printer until it spits out my damn labels.
What I will not do is spiral. Duck for cover. Avoid eye contact. Make myself any smaller.
It’s been two weeks since the gala.
Alec and I would pass each other at scrub sinks, wait in the same queue for coffee, and end up in the same theater huddle every morning. We have somehow perfected the art of professional indifference.
At least I thought so until we ended up at the same desk finishing our reports.
He glanced up from his chart, looked at me for a beat, then said, “I’m surprised you stayed in crit care. I thought you might’ve moved into something more manageable. You know . . . with the endo.”
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
The fucking audacity.
“Are you shitting me, Alec?”
His mouth tightened. “Jordie, that’s not what I—”
I capped my pen. Stood. “Save it, Doctor.”
And walked out before I’d be sent to HR (or jail) for slapping his face with a chart.
When I told Leith, he exploded with his usual monologue.
“Bloke leaves, blows up your life, strolls back in acting all shitty because seeing you still gets under his skin, and thinks he gets an opinion on your body like a career guidance counselor. Have you considered being smaller, Jordie? More manageable? Less inconvenient? What a patronizing little prick.”
Callum’s expression, on the other hand, didn’t change, which was somehow more alarming. “How generous of him,” he said. “I look forward to hearing him say that again while I’m in the room.”
Apart from the ongoing spectacle of male posturing, Callum and I have been . . . fine. Good, even. We’re still us, whatever us means these days. We haven’t had sex, which might be for the best. We’ve slipped into something quieter. Warmer. Calmer. A rhythm that doesn’t need touch to feel close.
He still texts me during back-to-back lists, leaves coffee on the PACU windowsill, and sends me journal articles with captions: “I feel like this study was written just to piss you off.”
I still tease him about his deep, suspiciously erotic devotion to PubMed, his inability to keep a pen longer than two hours, and the fact that he insists—with a straight face—that someone else keeps stealing them.
He hasn’t asked for more. I haven’t offered. But something about the space between us feels like a breath held too long.
And neither of us seems ready to exhale.
All in all, everything is fine.
Which is why, when my allocation gets shuffled and I’m sent to Theater 6 last-minute, I don’t panic. I simply channel my inner Jane Eyre: plain, polite, and absolutely not here for anyone’s bullshit.
Especially Alec, who’s already scrubbed in, clocking me the second I enter.
Callum glances up. A faint twitch of his brows. A flicker of you good?
I nod. One clean movement.
“Heather’s sick?” Callum asks.
“Vomiting,” I say, grabbing gloves. “The ‘I definitely trusted a street taco in 40-degree heat’ kind.”
“Unfortunate,” Callum chuckles. “But I’ll admit I’m relieved it’s you.”
“Missed me that much?”
“Missed not having someone silently judge my intubation setup.”
I glance at the offending trolley and give him a pointed look. “Honestly, how have you survived without me?”
I adjust everything. Grab the tube. Prep the stylet. Hand him the laryngoscope. We move as we always have. Call and response. Precision and rhythm.
Fingers over the patient’s neck, I apply firm cricoid pressure.
“Clear view,” he says.
I pass him the tube.
He slides it in. “Cricoid off. Cuff up.”
I release the pressure. Grab the syringe. Inject air into the pilot balloon.
“Connected. Breath sounds bilateral. CO? trace,” I say, securing the tube.
Done.
“That was fast.” The scout nurse blinks. “You two are the anesthetic dream team.”
“It’s all Mitchell, really.” Callum’s eyes crinkle above his mask. “I’m just the eye candy.”
“Please,” I scoff, inserting a temperature probe, “if anything, you’re the human equivalent of a well-labeled folder.”
Callum shrugs, taping the patient’s eyes shut. “Color-coded. Tabbed. Alphabetized.”
I mock-swoon. “God, you’re so hot when you talk admin.”
Alec clears his throat, his gaze darting between us.
“Are we ready to proceed?” he says, tone clipped with barely masked impatience.
Callum doesn’t flinch; his calm is a quiet rebuke to Alec’s edge. “All set. Drapes up,” Callum says.
The blue fabric rises. A line drawn. Surgical field on one side. Anesthetics on the other.
Battle lines, if you squint.
Theater ticks along in its usual rhythm. Callum watches the vitals. Alec calls out instructions with sharp focus. I run an arterial blood gas on the corner.
The song Wonderwall filters through the theater. Callum glances up, one brow arched, then jerks his head toward the speaker, silently asking, “Seriously?”
I nearly laugh. I could say Alec used to listen to this while doing . . . very non-surgical things.
But no one needs that mental image.
Instead, I hand Callum the blood gas printout. “Lactate’s up from 2.1 to 3.8.”
He scans it, then glances at the monitor. “Pressure’s holding for now. Anaerobic creep. Might not be perfusing as well as we think.”
“Adhesions are bad. Everything’s stuck down. However, bleeding’s minimal, Dr. Han,” Alec replies, brisk. “Field’s dry.”
Callum exhales through his nose, not quite frustrated, but close. “Upping the FiO?.”
“Running a fluid bolus,” I echo.
“You two always this rehearsed?” Alec asks dryly.
“Only on days ending in y,” I reply, drier.
Callum coughs—might be a laugh, might be him biting his tongue—and goes right back to adjusting the ventilator.
“Careful with that,” Alec says, leaning toward his surgical registrar. “Tissue’s friable.”
I glance up from the drug trolley. “Dr. Carter, should I be calling for packed red cells in case of a bleed?”
“Let’s not cry wolf every time a vein stretches, Nurse Mitchell. You should know this. You were a scrub nurse,” Alec retorts.
Callum lifts his eyes from the monitor, jaw set. “She’s not wrong to ask. We need to know if a vessel’s at risk so we can plan ahead.”
Alec shrugs. “If I need anesthetics to manage the surgical field, I’ll let you know.”
Callum levels me with a look that all but says, “Really? You dated this guy?” Instead, he orders, all professional, “Jords, set up the Belmont and pull a central line tray. Just in case.”
I nod and do as Callum orders.
Just as I click the rapid infuser line into place, Alec speaks again. “If you’ve finished priming lines, Nurse Mitchell, perhaps you’d like to scrub in.”
“I don’t scrub in anymore, Dr. Carter,” I reply.
Alec tsks. “Shame. All that talent, wasted.”
Callum’s voice cuts through, “Her talent’s not wasted. It’s just not at your disposal.” Alec lifts his head as though he might argue, but Callum doesn’t give him the chance. “And if you could refrain from undermining my nurse, Dr. Carter, I’d appreciate it.”
Suddenly, the monitor alarms—flashing numbers in bright red—grabbing everyone’s attention.
“Pressure’s dropped,” I announce. “MAP on 50s.”
Alec swears. “Mesenteric artery. There’s a bleed!”
Callum peers over the drapes. “No shit.”
We snap into motion. Callum adjusts the infusion and hangs another liter of fluid. I phone Pathology for urgent blood products while I prep the central line tray.
Everything feels too slow, even though I know it’s not.
“Clamp!” Alec barks, moving fast and in sync with his scrub nurse and registrar, working hard to control the bleed.
“Still crashing,” I call. “MAP’s in the 40s. No response to metaraminol. Pulse pressure narrowing.”
Callum’s halfway between the door and the scrub sink to wash his hands for the central line, when his eyes flick to the monitor then to the suction canister filling up with blood fast.
The monitor blares again—another dip. The capnography line nosedives. Which means shit just hit the fan. It means the heart’s not moving blood to the other organs.
Callum hisses a quiet, “Fuck it,” and douses his hands in alcohol rub. “No time to scrub. I’m doing a dirty cordis.”
Alec balks, “Han, that’s unsterile—”
“We’re in tamponade territory now, Dr. Carter,” Callum cuts in as I open him a Size 8.5 gloves. “Can you control your bleeder in under three minutes?”
A beat of silence.
“Didn’t think so,” he mutters as he gloves. Then, to me: “Jordie. We’ll insert via landmark.”
I’m already there. Head tilted ten degrees. Neck exposed. Site cleaned.
“Prepped, Dr. Han,” I say, “Vein looks collapsed. Traction on.”
“Seldinger needle,” he orders.
I slap it into his palm.
His hand is steady as he slides it into the jugular. Blood flashes in the chamber.
“Wire,” I say, passing it to him.
“In.”
“Dilator.”
He advances it. Smooth. Fast.
“Mitchell, cordis.”
I hand him the primed line, keeping the guidewire stable with my other hand. He threads the catheter through with ruthless precision.
“Flush. Blood return,” I confirm.
“Securing.” Suture. Dressing. Done.
Three minutes flat. Fuck, he’s fast.
The blood cooler arrives. I load the first unit. Callum connects the noradrenaline. Pressure climbs. Another adjustment. Another two units. Finally, stable.
Minutes later, Alec lets out a breath of relief. “Bleeder is controlled.”
Callum and I glance at each other and break into a grin.
We bump fists. Familiar. Easy. Ours.
“I’ll run another gas,” I say, letting out a long exhale, “then prep calcium gluconate for all the blood we’ve given.”
Callum nods. “You’ve read my mind.” Then, a beat later, he quips, “Not bad for wasted talent, hey, Dr. Carter?”
“Seriously,” I say, untying my mask as we return to theater from ICU, “that cordis placement was record-breaking. You didn’t even blink.”
Callum bumps my shoulder and grins. “Your blood setup wasn’t exactly sluggish.”
I’m still riding the post-adrenaline high when I spot Alec at the desk, head bent, scribbling procedural notes.
“Patient okay?” Alec asks without looking up.
Callum flips to the dog-eared page in the drug book. “Stable. ICU will wean off pressors tonight.”
Alec nods. “Good job in there. Thanks.”
It lands like a half-defrosted fish. Technically warm. Still kind of dead.
Callum initials the chart. “That thanks for Jordie, too?”
Alec glances over. “Of course.”
I offer a polite nod. Nothing more.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it and tilt the screen toward Callum.
Leith
Channel 14. Tonight. 8pm.
“What’s that about?” he asks.
“Beats me.” I tuck my phone away. “Wanna come over? We’ll watch it together.”
“I’ll bring the fancy popcorn from that shop you like.” He glances at the clock and winces. “Shit. I’ve got that QI meeting in ten.”
“Go,” I say, waving him off. “I need to reset the ventilator.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking toward Alec at the desk.
I roll my eyes and mouth, “I’ll be fine.” Then, with a grin: “See you tonight. And don’t mix M&M’s into the popcorn again, you psychopath.”
Callum laughs and heads out.
I move through my reset routine—swap the circuit, change the suction, date the filter.
Behind me, I hear a chart close. A pen cap snap.
But no footsteps.
When I finally look up, Alec’s still there. Watching me.
“You and Han,” he starts to say. “You work well together.”
I don’t stop what I’m doing. “We do.”
“Is it just work?”
I snap the last filter into place. “Why? You writing a paper on it?”
“Just curious, Jordie.”
I walk to the wall panel and reset the theater temperature. I grab my water bottle from the desk and say, “Switch the lights off on your way out, Dr. Carter.”
I don’t wait for a reply.