Page 11 of Christmas On Call
“Want to sit with me for a minute? It is Christmas day after all, or early Christmas morning at least?” Max asked. “We can watch the parents compete for ‘most sleep-deprived.’ I think pod five’s dad is running away with it. We’ve gotta take our moments where we can, right?”
Asha blinked, and for a moment, Max saw her weighing the offer, cataloging the risks and benefits as if it were another case. Finally, she nodded.
“I can spare a minute for you,” Asha said.
They slid down against the wall, side by side, cups of cocoa balanced on their knees. The world outside the glass continued: monitors, sighs, the perpetual tick of time. But here, in the hush, there was just enough space for something new to grow—something that began to fill the space around them.
Max breathed in, let the chocolate and cinnamon settle in her chest, and looked over at Asha, who was—miracle of miracles—savoring her cocoa in quiet contentment.
In that moment, Max didn’t care about the big day ahead, or the next code, or what anyone might think. She just wanted to sit there, in the glow, and let herself believe that even the darkest night shifts could end on a note of sweetness.
She sipped her cocoa, smiled to herself, and waited to see what would happen next.
“Thank you,” Asha said again, this time not for the cocoa.
“For what? For making you sit for a minute and just breathe? Hey, no problem!” Max asked, voice catching.
Asha hesitated, searching for the right words. “For not giving up and painting me with the same brush as everyone else does.Stern, boring, over-the-top, Doctor Patel. I’ve heard the mutters and stutters about me. I know how I come across, but I’m just doing my job.”
Max’s breath stuttered. The urge to touch her—to cup her cheek, to trace the line of her jaw, to pull her close—was sudden and overwhelming. She didn’t, not yet. But she let the want show on her face, open and unguarded.
“Never,” Max said.
5
ASHA
The NICU at 6:47 a.m. existed in a state of suspended animation, caught between the exhaustion of night and the crisp efficiency of day. Asha stood at the nurses’ station, her fingers resting on the keyboard with uncharacteristic stillness, the cursor blinking at the end of her final report like a metronome counting down the seconds until she could leave.
Rodriguez, Baby Boy. Male. 28 weeks gestational age. Code event at 02:04. Respiratory distress secondary to apnea of prematurity. Resuscitation successful. Stable on CPAP. Continue monitoring.
The words were precise, clinical, stripped of the terror that had gripped her when the alarms went off, when the baby’s chest went slack, and her own hands had started to shake. Asha read the report twice, searching for gaps in the narrative, some detail she might have missed. But the data was complete. The night was over.
She should leave.
The thought came with the same flat inevitability as her morning alarm, but her body refused to comply. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then drifted to the edge of the desk,where a fine dusting of glitter—red and silver, garish in the early light—clung to the laminate surface. She brushed at it, watched it scatter and resettle, impossible to fully erase.
The day shift had already begun their invasion: two nurses traded gossip by the supply cart, their voices pitched low but animated; a resident yawned his way through the handoff notes; someone had brought a box of donuts that sat open on the counter, the scent of sugar and grease mingling with the hospital’s perpetual disinfectant haze. Christmas morning. The world moved on.
Asha glanced at the window. Pale sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting golden bars across the floor. It was the kind of light that made everything look softer, more forgiving. She caught her reflection in the darkened computer monitor: hair half-escaped from its bun, lab coat wrinkled at the elbows, shadows under her eyes so deep they looked like bruises.
She looked tired. She looked her age. She looked?—
Human.
The word unsettled her. She straightened, smoothed her coat, and clicked save on the report. Her shift had ended twenty minutes ago. There was no reason to linger.
Except.
Her gaze drifted to pod two, where Max Benson was crouched beside Mrs. Rodriguez, one hand resting lightly on the woman’s shoulder, the other gesturing toward the isolette where Baby Rodriguez—pink, breathing, miraculous—slept beneath his warming lights. Max’s scrubs were rumpled, her hair escaping from its messy bun, and she was supposed to have signed out half an hour ago. But there she was, smiling, her voice too low for Asha to hear but the tone unmistakable: gentle, reassuring, as if she had all the time in the world.
Asha’s chest tightened.
She told herself it was annoyance—Nurse Benson’s chronic disregard for protocol, her inability to leave well enough alone. But the tightness didn’t feel like irritation. It felt dangerously close to longing.
She looked away, refocused on the desk, but her attention kept snagging on Max’s presence. The way she laughed, soft and unhurried; the way her hand moved in slow, soothing circles on Mrs. Rodriguez’s back; the way she glanced up, just once, and caught Asha watching. The way her kindness poured out from her soul.
Their eyes met.
