#chapterseven

By the time you step onto the floor, it’s already out. Not loudly. Not formally. But enough.

“Morning,” Crus says.

“It’s night.” You remind him.

“Same difference.”

A beat.

“So,” he says, like he’s trying to be casual and failing, “how was it?”

You don’t look up. “How was what?”

There’s a pause. Crus stares at you. Ellis doesn’t look up, but you can feel it.

“Really?” Crus says.

“I’m asking for clarification.” You shrug.

“That’s not what you’re doing,” Ellis says.

Shen lifts his coffee. “She’s deflecting.”

“I’m not—” You stop.

Because you are.

“Coffee,” Crus says. “The coffee.”

You take a moment, considering your answer. “It was coffee.”

“That’s not helpful,” Crus replies.

“That’s the answer.” You shrug.

Another beat.

Ellis finally glances up. “Was it at least good coffee?”

You hesitate. Just a fraction.

“Yeah.” That’s enough. No one pushes further. That’s worse. You log in. Scan the board. Move.

Because that’s what you do. Someone steps in beside you. You don’t look up. You already know. “Room five needs you,” Rowan says, setting a chart down beside your hand.

You take it. “Got it.”

A beat.

“You good?” he adds.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t push. Just nods once. And moves with you. The room settles. Not quiet. Just easier. That’s the difference. 

Room twelve flags next. Agitated. Intoxicated. Uncooperative. You step in. The smell hits first. Alcohol. Sweat. Something sour under antiseptic. He’s leaning forward, unstable, eyes unfocused. “Hey,” you say. “Can you sit back for me?”

He looks at you. Not tracking. “Don’t need this.” He mumbles. 

“Okay,” you say. “I’m just going to—”

“You think you can tell me what to do?” His voice rises, and he moves in closer.

Too close. You shift back.

Too late. The change in him comes all at once. His posture tightens. Eyes sharpen. You feel it. “Hey,” you say, quieter now. “Stay with me.”

He doesn’t. His hand comes up— and lands on your upper arm. Hard. Fingers digging into muscle through your scrubs, locking your arm in place. Pain spikes instantly.

“Let go—”

He doesn’t. He pulls. Your shoulder follows, your body dragged half a step forward, balance breaking just enough to matter. “Let go,” you snap. The grip tightens.

For a second, everything narrows. Your arm, his hand, your pulse hammering, 

Then—Jack is there.

You don’t see him move. You feel it. His hand closes over the patient’s forearm, precise, controlled, redirecting the force. “Let her go.” Not loud. Not forceful. Certain.

The patient resists—just enough. Jack adjusts his angle. Applies pressure. The grip breaks. Your arm is released. You step back immediately, flexing your fingers to ground yourself.

Jack doesn’t look at you yet. 

“Sit back,” he says, guiding the patient down. “You’re done.”

The tone doesn’t change. The room does. The patient mutters, tries to rise again. Jack shifts with him. “Stay there.” Quieter. It works. The fight drains out. A nurse steps in. Security closes in. The moment dissolves. Too fast.

 Only then does Jack turn to you. 

His eyes drop to your arm.

“Come here.” Not a question. You hesitate. Then step forward. His hand settles at the back of your arm. Close enough that you feel it. Not gripping. Not soft. Guiding. You let him move you into the hallway. The air shifts. Cooler. Quieter. The door shuts behind you. You don’t realize how tight your shoulders are until you step out. Then it hits. Your arm throbs.

“I’m fine,” you say.

“Let me see it.”

“It’s nothing.” You insist. 

“Let me see it.” Same tone. No argument.

You reach down, pushing your scrub sleeve up. The fabric drags against your skin. You wince. Small. Immediate. You didn’t mean to. He sees it. Doesn’t comment. Just steps closer.

 His hand closes around your arm. Gentler now.

“Here?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He presses along the muscle, checking. “You’ll bruise.”

“That’s fine.”

His grip loosens. Doesn’t drop immediately. “You good?” he asks.

You meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“Thanks.”

He shakes his head once. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I—”

“That wasn’t something I had to think about,” he says.  Simple. Flat. Like it means nothing. Like it means everything. Something in your chest shifts. You don’t let it settle. Before you can respond, 

“Hey—” Rowan. He steps into the space easily. “I heard about room twelve.”

“I’m good.” You tell him. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You always say that.”

You exhale. “Because it’s true.”

His eyes drop to your arm. “Let me see.”

You don’t move. He doesn’t wait. His hand closes around your arm, gentle, fingers brushing over the spot already starting to darken beneath the skin.

You feel it immediately. Not painful. Not clinical, just… there. He turns your arm slightly, examining it.

Across from you, Jack goes still. Not obvious. Just… still. His jaw tightens. Barely. Then smooths out. His gaze drops to Rowan’s hand on your arm. Then lifts. Something in his expression flattens. Controlled. 

He steps back. 

“You’ll want to ice it,” he says. Flat. Clinical. Already disengaging.

You glance at him. “It’s fine—”

“Do it anyway.” Not sharp. Not soft. Final. He doesn’t wait for a response. Turns. Walks back into the department.

Rowan’s still standing close. His hand hasn’t moved yet. You’re aware of it. The warmth.

The steadiness. It’s easier. That’s the word that lands. Easier. You nod once.

Like that settles something. It doesn’t. You pull your arm back

“I’m okay.” Your voice sounds normal.

“Good,” Rowan says.

A beat.

“I want a better answer than ‘it was coffee.’”

You glance at him.

“You heard that?”

“Maybe,” he says easily. “I would like to try and improve that review.”

A small smile.

“Later?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Simple. Clean.

Back at the station, the noise returns.

Crus leans over. “You okay?”

You press your thumb into your arm. The mark is already fading. You press harder. Like checking if it’s still there. Across the room. Jack is exactly where he should be. And still not where you expect him. You turn back to Crus. 

“I’ll live.”