Page 28 of Outbreak Protocol
The nurse covers Maria with a sheet while Felix strips off his bloodied gloves. His scrubs are soaked with sweat and spatteredwith blood, his hair disheveled from the exertion. Around us, the emergency department continues its controlled chaos—more patients arriving, more families crying, more staff rushing between beds.
"Dr. Müller!" Another voice calls. "Trauma two needs you!"
Felix doesn't respond. He stands motionless beside Maria's covered form, staring at his hands.
"Felix," I say softly. "They need you."
"I can't." His voice comes out hoarse. "I can't do this again. Not right now."
I glance around the trauma bay, then make a decision that surprises me. "Yes, you can. But first, you need some time."
I guide Felix away from the bed, past the nurses preparing Maria's body, through the chaos of the emergency department. NATO personnel try to stop us, but I flash my ECDC credentials and explain we need to decontaminate.
On the third floor, I find an empty physician's lounge with an attached shower. Felix sits heavily on the bench, head in his hands.
"I've lost patients before," he says. "It's part of the job. But this... watching her body just give up, bleeding from everywhere at once..."
"You did everything possible."
"Did I? Because it felt like nothing. Like trying to stop a tsunami with a paper towel."
I sit beside him, close enough that our shoulders touch. "You gave her forty minutes of your complete attention and skill. You refused to give up when anyone else would have called it. That matters, even if the outcome didn't change."
Felix looks at me, and I see exhaustion and grief and something else—gratitude that I stayed, that I helped, that I'm here now when he needs someone to understand what we just witnessed.
"Your scrubs are covered in blood," I observe.
"Yours too."
I look down and realize he's right. My shirt and jacket are stained from our attempts to save Maria, evidence of my first real involvement in emergency medicine rather than epidemiological analysis.
"Shower," I murmur, my voice rough. "Together."
The physician’s shower is clinical—chrome fixtures, harsh lighting—but the heat will soothe the ache in our muscles, wash away the traces of failure. Felix hesitates, then nods, his hands trembling faintly as he peels off his scrubs. I do the same, fabric sticking where blood has dried, our movements unhurried, almost reverent.
The water hits us, scalding at first, then perfect. Steam curls between us as crimson swirls down the drain. Felix scrubs methodically, surgeon’s hands moving with precision, but his breath catches when he scrapes a nail too hard over his wrist.
I step closer. "Let me."
My fingers trace his spine first—just a whisper of contact—before sliding into his hair. He shudders as I work the shampoo through, massaging the tension from his scalp, thumbs pressing slow circles behind his ears. The blood rinses away, but I don’t stop. My touch lingers at the nape of his neck, where his pulse jumps under damp skin.
He turns suddenly, water sluicing down his chest, and his hands find my hips, pulling me against him. Heat sears where we touch—his stomach flush with mine, thighs brushing—and his thumbs stroke my ribs, questioning.
"You’re shaking," he whispers.
I wasn’t. Not until now.
His palm cradles my jaw, calloused fingers gentle as they tilt my face up. The kiss starts slow—just the brush of lips, testing—but when I part mine with a sigh, he groans, deepening it. His tongue traces my lower lip, tasting me, and I grip his shoulders to steady myself. The water is everywhere, his body slick against me, and I can’t tell where the shower ends and he begins.
We break apart gasping. Felix rests his brow against mine, his breath warm on my mouth.
"It's not just today," he says, the words a raw confession. "It's not just the... horror."
"I know." I touch his cheek, my thumb tracing the exhausted line of his jaw. "For me either." I kiss him again, softer this time, a promise instead of a release. "I know."
The shower drains the terror, the grief. What’s left is this: his heartbeat under my palms, the whisper of his lips on my temple, the unspoken promise that whatever comes next, we face ittogether.
"I don't usually..." he starts.
