Page 15 of Christmas On Call
The hours crawled.
Max threw herself into her rounds, checking vitals, updating charts, cooing at the babies who were awake and fussing. She helped Mrs. Chen position her son for kangaroo care, the tiny boy nestled against his mother’s chest, skin to skin. She changed IV bags, charted medications, and made herself useful in all the small, mechanical ways that usually grounded her.
But her attention kept snagging on Asha, who moved through the unit like a ghost. She seemed present but untouchable, efficient but remote.
At 9 PM, they ended up at the same computer, both needing to update the same patient’s chart. Max was mid-sentence when Asha appeared at her elbow, close enough that Max could smell her soap—something clean and faintly herbal, the same scent that had clung to Max’s clothes after the kiss.
“I need to add an order,” Asha said, her voice flat.
“Yeah, just—give me one second.” Max finished typing, then reached for the mouse to scroll down.
Asha reached for it at the same time.
Their hands collided—just knuckles and fingertips, barely a touch—but Asha jerked back like she’d been burned. The mouse clattered against the desk.
“Excuse me,” Asha murmured, and walked away before Max could respond.
Max stared at the screen, her hand still hovering over the mouse, and felt something crack open in her chest. She’d seen Asha’s hand trembling. Just for a second, but it had been there—visible, undeniable.
She feels it too, Max thought.So why is she doing this?
At 10:30, protocol dragged them together again.
High-risk medication check: two nurses required to verify the dosage, the patient, the timing. Max had drawn up the dose for Baby Leo—a micro-preemie with a heart condition—and needed a second set of eyes before administration.
Asha appeared beside her without being asked, as if she’d been monitoring Max’s movements from across the unit.
They stood shoulder to shoulder at the med cart, the vial between them, the syringe held up to the light. Max read the label aloud, her voice steady. Asha confirmed the dosage, her tone equally controlled.
But they were close. Too close for comfort; close enough that Max could see the faint shadows under Asha’s eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers gripped the edge of the cart just a little too tightly.
Max finished the verification, signed the log, and turned to face her. “Asha?—”
“That will be all, thank you,” Asha said, already stepping back, already rebuilding the wall.
Max watched her go, frustration building like pressure behind her ribs.
By 11:45, Max was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the shift.
She was checking vitals in pod four. Baby Jones, stable and gaining weight, finally off the vent. And then she felt it: the weight of someone’s gaze, heavy and deliberate.
She looked up.
Asha stood across the unit, half-hidden in the doorway to pod seven, staring at her.
Their eyes locked.
For three full seconds, Asha’s mask slipped. Max saw everything: the longing, the conflict, the fear. It was written across her face like a language Max was only just learning to read.
Then someone called Asha’s name—one of the residents, urgent and oblivious—and the moment shattered. Asha turned away, her expression smoothing back into professionalism, and disappeared into the pod.
Max’s hands shook as she finished the vitals check. Her pulse was loud in her ears.
She does feel it. She’s just terrified.
The realization didn’t comfort her. If anything, it made everything worse—because if Asha felt the same pull, the same ache, and was choosing to push Max away, what did that mean? That fear was stronger than want? That Max wasn’t worth the risk?
She set down the chart and walked to the break room, needing a moment alone, needing to breathe.
