Page 33 of Dr. Roz Harrington
ROZ
Roz Harrington stood at the head of the operating table, hands steady and sure, the sterile hum of the OR filling her ears. Bright surgical lights beat down, pooling the focus onto the young woman lying motionless before her. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, every second echoing through Roz’s mind as she moved with precision.
“This is what we’re doing,” she said firmly, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere as her surgical team awaited her orders. “It’s high-risk, but it’s the only chance she has.” Her green eyes, sharp and unwavering, met those of the anesthesiologist, the scrub nurse, and her first assist, daring anyone to question her.
No one did. They never did.
But it wasn’t their hesitation Roz could feel; it was Sam’s.
Sam Quinn’s presence loomed like a shadow beyond the glass window of the OR. Roz didn’t need to look to know Sam was there, watching, her arms crossed tightly, her jaw set with that steadfast determination she always carried. Roz couldfeelher, those sharp blue eyes drilling into the scene, no doubt questioning every decision Roz made.
A flicker of irritation sparked in Roz’s chest, but she shoved it down, forcing herself back into the moment.Stay focused. She’s not your problem right now.
Her gloved hands moved expertly, navigating the brain tissue with care. Every movement was deliberate, every decision calculated. This was her domain, the place where she thrived, where there were no questions, no emotions, only skill, precision, and results.
“Watch for blood pressure drop,” she barked, never lifting her eyes from the field. The nurse adjusted the IV flow, the rhythm of the beeping monitor steadying again.
Roz took a deep breath, the sterile scent of the mask grounding her. She had done this a hundred times before, maybe more, but the weight of Sam’s gaze was unshakable. It wasn’t like Roz to be aware of someone else beyond the four walls of the OR, but Sam was different. That firefighter was like a fuse that had been lit inside her, unrelenting, intense, and dangerously close to setting everything ablaze.
For a moment, Roz dared to glance up at the glass.
Sam was there, as Roz expected, standing rigid, her eyes locked onto Roz’s hands like she was scrutinizing her every move. Her face was pale, her brows drawn together in a hard line of worry. Roz didn’t flinch or falter, but seeing that look on Sam’s face sent an unexpected ripple through her chest.
Stop it.Roz pulled her attention back to the surgery, her focus doubling. She didn’t owe anyone explanations, least of all a firefighter with a stubborn streak and impossibly sharp eyes. But still, a small voice gnawed at the edges of her mind:What if she’s right? What if this is reckless?
No.Roz shook off the thought immediately. This was her choice. Her instincts were the only thing that mattered here.
“Cauterize,” she ordered briskly, the nurse handing her the instrument she needed. She moved methodically, repairing thedamage, one microscopic step at a time. Her pulse quickened as she worked, not from nerves, but from the mounting pressure of the surgery, of time slipping through her fingers like sand.
“This is where it counts,” she muttered under her breath, so low that no one could hear her.
The young woman’s vitals wavered for a moment, and Roz stilled, holding her breath. The entire room froze with her, waiting for her next move.
Trust yourself.Roz’s eyes narrowed, and she made her next incision. The seconds stretched into minutes, sweat beading along her temple beneath her cap, but she didn’t falter. Her fingers worked like an artist’s, balancing strength with delicacy.
The monitor beeped steadily again. The pressure in the room released, a collective exhale filling the air. Roz pulled back just slightly, checking her work one final time. The damage was stabilized. The risk had paid off.
“Close her up,” Roz said, her voice firm but quieter now.
She stepped back, letting the surgical techs take over as her job came to an end. Roz stripped off her gloves and sterile gown, her chest heaving slightly as she walked toward the scrub sink.
As the water rushed over her hands, cooling the heat in her palms, Roz looked up at her reflection in the mirror. She was still, her face stoic as always, but beneath it all was a simmer of something else stirred: relief, exhaustion, and the ever-present tightness she could never quite name.
Roz turned toward the OR door, her focus sharpening again. Sam would be there, waiting for answers or maybe just waiting to tell Roz how wrong she’d been. Roz was ready for the fight or so she told herself.
The doors to the OR swung open as Roz stepped out, peeling off her surgical cap and running a hand through the damp strands of pink hair clinging to her forehead. She exhaled sharply, her body thrumming with both the lingering adrenaline and the quiet relief of a successful surgery. The young woman was stable, for now, but Roz knew better than anyone that the next forty-eight hours would be critical.
The hallway outside was unusually silent, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the steady rhythm of Roz’s shoes against the tile. She was ready to scrub out and disappear into her office for a moment of peace before diving into the next case.
But peace, it seemed, was a luxury she wouldn’t be afforded tonight.
As soon as Roz turned the corner, she saw Sam waiting for her. The firefighter stood rigidly, her broad shoulders squared, hands clenched into fists at her sides. The firehouse dress blues Sam still wore seemed slightly wrinkled, her face flushed, her eyes sharp and unrelenting as they locked onto Roz.
Roz didn’t stop walking, though her chest tightened at the sight of Sam’s expression, anger mixed with something far more dangerous: fear.
“You want to yell at me, don’t you?” Roz said before Sam could get a word out, her tone clipped and defensive as she crossed her arms over her chest.
Sam pushed off the wall, stepping directly into Roz’s path. “What the hell was that in there, Harrington?” Her voice was low, but it carried a hard edge.
