Page 2 of My Masked Savior
Standard Friday night.
At least, it seems like it, until our eyes meet.
She lifts her face to mine, and there’s an immediate clawing at my chest. Even gasping for air, she’s stunning—deep chocolate brown eyes wide with fear, skin the color of dark caramel, high cheekbones. Her dark hair frames her face in ringlets, and despite the distress contorting her features, there’s something so delicate about her.
Focus, Hale. She’s a patient, not a date.
“I’m Damien. Can you tell me your name?”
“M—Morgan,” she wheezes, the effort making her wince.
I notice the discarded inhaler. “Morgan, did your inhaler help at all?”
She shakes her head, clutching at her chest.
I check her pulse—racing—while noting the nail marks on her chest where she’s clawed at her skin. Classic panic-induced asthma attack, but the inhaler should have provided some relief. This is severe.
“Has this happened before?” I place the oxygen mask over her face, motioning for Jenkins to prep the gurney.
Her eyes flicker with realization, and then she nods slightly.
I perform a rapid trauma assessment while monitoring her SpO2 levels on the portable pulse oximeter. Her breathing sounds are severely diminished on auscultation—this isn’t merely anxiety; it’s a full bronchospasm. My fingers move of their own accord, the same hands that once stabilized wounded soldiers, now working to keep this woman alive.
“Albuterol’s not touching it,” I tell Jenkins. “We need to get her on a nebulizer treatment. Likely need Benralizumab.”
Morgan’s fingers find my wrist, gripping with surprising strength. There’s intelligence behind the fear in those eyes—she understands the severity.
“We’re taking you to the ambulance now,” I explain, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders. Her body feels fragile against mine, but I can feel the tension in her muscles. “The treatment there will help you breathe. Understand?”
She manages a small nod, her eyelashes fluttering as she struggles to maintain consciousness.
I place her onto the gurney and then take my end. “Onthree,” I tell Jenkins. She weighs almost nothing between us, but the responsibility of this moment feels immense.
Once we get her down to the ground floor in the elevator, it’s smooth sailing to the ambulance. We load Morgan into the back as we do countless times every shift. Jenkins closes the doors while I position myself beside her, monitoring her vitals. Her oxygen saturation is dangerously low, and her lips are taking on a bluish tinge.
“Prepping Benralizumab,” I announce, reaching for the medication. My movements are automatic after years of training—draw the correct dosage, tap the syringe, expel air bubbles.
Morgan’s eyes follow my every move, panic evident, but there’s trust there too. It’s a look I’ve seen numerous times, that moment when patients surrender themselves completely to my care. Usually, it’s simply part of the job. But with her, it hits differently.
I swab her upper arm with alcohol. “This will help calm your immune response. Might feel a sting. But I need you to relax. Can you do that for me?”
My eyes lock onto hers like a homing missile. She nods almost imperceptibly.
“Good girl. Now breathe.” The words slip out before I can catch them—more intimate than my usual clinical tone.
The effect is immediate. Her pupils dilate. Her breathing slows down. Her heart rate drops from critical to manageable as her oxygen levels climb.
I laugh softly, partly from relief at her improvement, partly from disbelief at her response. And fuck if my body doesn’t respond too. Pressure surges below my belt, blood rushing south with such intensity that it’s almost painful.In my years as a paramedic, I’ve never had such an inappropriate physical reaction to a patient.
“Good to know, princess,” I murmur. It’s at that point that I depress the plunger, wondering if it’s even necessary, as my words seem to have worked a miracle on her.
Her eyes widen slightly. A flush spreads across her cheeks. She looks confused, embarrassed... maybe intrigued?
I busy myself with setting up her IV, trying to regain my professional demeanor. This woman—this patient—has somehow slipped past defenses I didn’t even know existed. In the span of ten minutes, Morgan has become more than just another life to save. Dangerous territory for someone like me.
The ambulance lurches forward as Jenkins navigates through traffic. The siren wails overhead, but inside the back of the ambulance, this space feels strangely intimate—just me, Morgan, and the steady beep of monitoring equipment.
I tap the vein in her inner elbow, getting it ready for the IV line. Her skin feels soft beneath my gloved fingers, and I notice goosebumps rising where I touch her.
