The laceration wasn’t large. But itwasopen.
And the sight of fresh blood along a scar that had taken months to heal made something tight twist behind my ribs. “You tore the distal edge,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm.
Desmond leaned back on his hands, watching me the way he always did when I was working—steady, patient, trusting in a way that still felt dangerously intimate.
Chapter 54
Anya
“You’re lucky,” I muttered, irrigating the wound carefully. “Another half inch and we’d be calling ortho.”
“Lucky is not the word I’d use,” he said, voice dry but strained. Ezra and Giovanni had relocated to a room nearby, giving us the space to clean the wound.
His hands gripped the edge of the examination table. He was trying not to show pain — trying to be the man he used to be, the one who could take hits without blinking. I saw the micro-flinches, anyway. I always did.
“Local’s going in,” I warned, steadying the tissue.
His jaw flexed. “Do your worst, Doc.”
My chest squeezed at the worddoctorcoming from him — pride and something softer twisting together — but I kept my face professional, my tone even. I injected, waited, and tested sensation. The routine grounded me. The familiar rhythm of sutures, sterile field, controlled breathing.
This I knew how to do, even if my lips fought back the smile that Desmond was so desperately trying to drag out of me.
Footsteps pounded down the hallway behind me — heavy,authoritative, too familiar. My spine stiffened before I even heard his voice.
“What’s going on in here?” Frank Patel filled the doorway like a storm cloud that had learned to walk upright.
I didn’t turn immediately. I finished tying off the suture, trimmed the thread, and placed the instruments back onto the tray with deliberate calm before answering.
“Doctor Vaughn fell during transfer,” I said. “Residual limb laceration from EMT’s gurney. No fracture. No head injury or LOC. We’re closing and monitoring for swelling.”
He stepped closer, his presence pressing into my peripheral vision like an old bruise. “You’re leading this?”
“I was the doctor in the room when it occurred. Other than Vaughn,” I replied.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Step aside.”
The words landed exactly where they used to — that old reflex to apologize flickered for half a second — but something steadier rose underneath it. Something earned. Something forged out of too many sleepless nights and too many moments where I had to hold myself together because no one else would.
“I’m in the middle of a sterile procedure,” I said, not looking away from the wound. “If you have a concern, you’re welcome to voice it.”
The room grew quieter than it should have been on a Thursday morning. Nurses hovered just outside the curtain. Someone stopped rolling a cart. Frank moved closer anyway, eyes scanning my setup like he expected to find mistakes hiding under the gauze. “You’re too close to this case.”
My hands didn’t stop moving. Needle driver. Precision. Breathe in, breathe out. “Objectivity isn’t compromised,” I said. “Closure is straightforward.”
He reached for the tablet beside me like it already belonged to him. “I’ll take over.”
Heat flared low in my chest. Not panic — anger. Clean and sharp,and old. I tied another stitch, clipped the thread, and finally looked up at him. “No.”
The word surprised both of us.
His eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”
“I’m competent enough to finish what I started,” I said evenly. “Patient is stable. Protocol is being followed.”
Desmond shifted on the table — I felt it more than saw it — the instinct to intervene radiating off him in waves. I didn’t let my gaze flick to him. If I did, I might crack. I might soften. I might hand over control just to make this easier.
Frank’s voice dropped low enough to cut. “You’ve always struggled with recognizing when you’re in over your head.” The sentence hit like an echo from two years ago: long shifts under his supervision, every decision questioned, every success dismissed as luck.
