Page 22 of Scout
I take over instantly. "Vitals?"
"BP eighty-two over fifty-six. Heart rate one-twenty-eight and climbing."
"Start two large bores. Get the ultrasound ready. Push a unit of O-neg and hang another. Let’s move!"
Everything else fades. It’s just the patient. The blood. The protocol. My hands work fast, cutting clothes, assessing damage, giving orders that fly from my mouth before I’ve even finished thinking about them.
We stabilize him enough to get a partial scan.
And then Kendrix walks in.
He’s in scrubs and a white coat, looking too put together for the chaos around him. His eyes find me, sharp and unreadable.
"You need me?" he asks.
"Nope. Everything’s under control. He’s headed to CT. Then we’ll know more. I’ll page you."
He nods but doesn’t leave. "When you planning on eating?"
"Don’t know," I grumble, turning away to check the orders.
He steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his body and the weight of whatever he’s about to say.
"I think we should talk about the party."
I step away. "Nothing to talk about. Glad we could share an Uber."
His brow tightens. "That’s it?"
I shrug. "What else could there be?"
He leans in, voice low and sharp against my ear. “This. This right here is why we aren’t together anymore. You know damn well what I’m talking about, but instead you’d rather play stupid fucking games than talk like the grown man you are.”
And then he’s gone. Storming out, leaving a hole torn straight through my chest.
What the hell? Why do I do that?
It’s as if I physically can’t let myself say anything real. My walls are so high, I don’t even remember how to climb them anymore.
I scrub a hand through my hair and stare at the swinging ER doors.
Scout. Kendrix. That night.
They’ve cracked something in me.
And I don’t know how to deal with it without bleeding all over the damn floor.
I take a deep breath and force myself back into motion. There’s always something to do in the ER. A chart to update. A consult to follow up on. Someone coding three bays over. I tell myself the routine will help, the muscle memory of it, the practiced confidence. I’ve done this a thousand times. I can do it again.
But it’s like my brain won’t let go.
Scout’s laugh. The way he looked at me when no one else was watching. The ghost of his mouth on mine.
And Kendrix. The frustration in his voice. The heat behind his words. The way he always sees through me, like I’m glass and he’s just waiting for me to admit I’m cracked.
I pass the nurse’s station and catch a few glances. Whispers. I know what they’re thinking. A Doctor is always composed. Always put-together. Until he isn’t. Until his walls show seams and the tension bleeds through.
I head into Room Three to check on a patient we treated earlier for a deep laceration—industrial equipment, nasty edge, barely missed a tendon. He’s stable now. Quiet. Probably counting the minutes until discharge. I update the chart, nod to the nurse, and leave again without saying much. My whole body itches to move.
