Page 14 of Christmas On Call
As Asha watched, Max turned, as if sensing her gaze, and lifted one hand in a small wave.
Asha’s breath stuttered. She raised her own hand, barely, then forced herself to start the engine.
The drive home was a blur. She parked in her building’s underground garage, took the elevator up to her apartment on the twelfth floor, and locked the door behind her with a decisive click.
The apartment was exactly as she’d left it: immaculate, silent, the plants all watered, the dishes all clean. It looked like a staged photo, a life waiting to be lived. No decorations or festive joy.
Asha set her bag down by the door, kicked off her shoes, and walked to the window. The city stretched out before her, washed in pale Christmas morning light, and for the first time in years, she didn’t feel the usual comfort of solitude.
She felt lonely.
And beneath that, something else—something dangerous and thrilling and utterly terrifying.
She pressed her fingers to her lips again, and this time, she let herself smile.
Nothing about her next shift would be the same.
Nothing about her would be the same.
And for once, the thought didn’t fill her with dread.
6
MAX
Max arrived at Oakridge Hospital at 6:47 PM, which was thirteen minutes earlier than her shift technically started, but she’d been ready since five-thirty, pacing her Echo Park apartment in her scrubs, checking her phone every ninety seconds, and trying not to replay the kiss for the hundredth time that day.
Three days. It had been three days since Christmas morning, since she’d stood outside the hospital in weak LA sunlight and kissed Dr. Asha Patel like it was the most natural thing in the world. Three days of texting—casual at first, then increasingly vulnerable on Max’s end, increasingly terse on Asha’s. Three days of wondering if she’d imagined the softness in Asha’s eyes, the tremor in her hands, the way she’d leaned in like she was falling.
Max swiped her badge at the employee entrance, the scanner beeping green, and pushed through the doors into the familiar smell of antiseptic and floor wax. The Christmas decorations were mostly gone now, stripped away by Facilities as soon as possible. Only a few rogue strands of tinsel clung to the railings,and someone had left a paper snowman taped to the pharmacy door, his arms still outstretched, smile slightly crumpled.
She took the stairs as needed to burn off the nervous energy, and emerged on the fifth floor slightly breathless, her heart already doing something complicated and unhelpful in her chest.
The NICU was back to its normal rhythm: no holiday chaos, no cocoa cart, just the steady noise of monitors and the soft shuffle of the evening shift settling in. Martha was at the nurses’ station, squinting at a medication order. Juliette, whose hair was now a shade of violet that defied nature, was restocking gloves in pod three. And there, standing at the far end of the hallway with a clipboard and her usual posture of perfect composure, was Asha.
Max felt the air leave her lungs.
Asha looked exactly as she always did—scrubs pressed, lab coat immaculate, hair twisted into that severe bun that somehow made her look both untouchable and devastating.
Max approached with what she hoped was a casual stride, though her hands felt clumsy and her face too warm. She stopped a few feet away, close enough to speak quietly.
“Hey,” Max said, and the word came out softer than she intended, almost tentative.
Asha glanced up from her chart. For a heartbeat, something flickered in her eyes—recognition, maybe, or want—but it was gone so fast Max might have imagined it.
“Good evening, Nurse Benson.” Asha’s voice was cool, clinical, the tone she used for shift reports and protocol reviews.
Max’s smile faltered. “I thought maybe we could?—”
“I need these labs reviewed within the hour,” Asha interrupted, holding out a stack of printouts without quite meeting Max’s eyes. “Baby Rodriguez’s bilirubin is trending up. We may need to restart phototherapy.”
Max took the papers, her fingers brushing Asha’s for a fraction of a second. Asha pulled back like she’d touched something hot.
“Asha—” Max started, keeping her voice low.
“Doctor Patel,” Asha corrected, and this time her tone had an edge. Then, softer but no warmer: “Please. Let’s maintain appropriate workplace conduct.”
She turned and walked away, her footsteps brisk and silent, leaving Max standing there with a stack of lab results and the sudden, sinking feeling that she’d made a terrible mistake.
