He coded twice on the table.Twice.
By the second time, my hands didn't even shake. They knew the drill before I did. Adrenaline in. Compressions. "Come on, Ethan," I hissed through my mask. "You've pulled dumber stunts than this."
Flatline. Then a pulse.
The OR reeked of blood, sweat, and nerves. The lights were too bright. The monitor lines jumped back to life as if nothing had happened.By the time the shunt was in and the swelling started to drain, the vibe of the room had changed to one of second chances.
He lived.Of course he did.Hard-headed bastard.
I stripped my gloves, peeled the mask off my face, and stared at him on the other side of the glass—tubes, sutures, gauze, the faint rhythm of life under the sheet. I should've felt relief. I just felt old.
It was 2:03 a.m. when I made the call. I didn't trust anyone else to do it.
"Mr. and Mrs.—" I stopped, the name sour on my tongue. "—it's Dr. Rachel Maren from Mercy General."
A pause crackled.
"Rachel?" his mother said. "Rachel from Mercy Hospital? I heard you're a nurse in the city now."
I blinked at the wall clock. The second hand ticked loud enough to hurt. "Uh, no, ma'am. I'm a doctor now. Neurosurgery."
Silence. Then a soft, shocked, "Oh my God. Matt!"
Her voice pitched. "Matt, something's wrong with Ethan!"
I let the panic roll through their line before I spoke again. "He was in a motorcycle crash. Helmetless. We operated. He's stable, but still unconscious."
A breath, then: "We'll be there as soon as we can."
Of course they would. Money always travels fast.
They came by helicopter.
Security called before I even scrubbed out: The Connors chopper just got clearance.
By the time the doors slid open, they were striding through—designer coats, perfect hair, terror disguised as confidence. I'd seen gunshot victims look calmer.
I was ready. Lab coat on. ID clipped. Stethoscope looped across my neck like armor.
I met them head-on. "Mr. and Mrs. Connors. I'm Dr. Maren. I operated on your son."
His mother lunged first, hugging me as if it were absolution.His father offered a handshake like a challenge. "We'd like to speak to your attending—the one in charge."
"You're looking at her."
He frowned. "No, I meant someone with more—"
"Matt!" she snapped. "She saved our son. Say thank you before I divorce you."
He shut his mouth, but his eyes stayed hard.
I straightened. "Your son's alive because a dozen people moved fast. I'll walk you through what we did."
I kept my voice clipped, professional, human, but not soft. "We relieved pressure from a frontal lobe bleed. The shunt's working. He's stable for now."
"How long until he wakes up?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"You're the doctor, aren't you?"
"Okay, you ass. Like you're the first rude prick I've ever encountered." I thought.
I met his stare without blinking.
"Yes, sir," I responded respectfully. His jaw clenched; he hated that I hadn't jumped at the bait.
My self-talk was in overdrive. Kill them with kindness, and do not engage.They're scared. That's their only kid in there.
I forced my voice steady, drawing on every ounce of professionalism I owned, borrowed, or stole. Dealing with Ethan's father was always a test—we'd never clicked.
"And that's precisely why I won't lie to you. Head trauma doesn't play by the rules. It could be tomorrow. Could be never."
His wife's hand went to her mouth. His jaw locked.
"Would you like to see him?" I asked quietly.
They both nodded.
"One at a time," I warned. "Too much noise, too much stimulation—it can hurt recovery."
His father muttered, "How much worse can it get?"
I let it slide. "He's stable. That's what matters tonight."
I opened the ICU door and stepped aside. His mother went first, the smell of her perfume cutting through the sterile air. The monitors pulsed slow green, keeping their secrets.
She reached for his hand, whispering something soft. I stayed in the doorway, watching.
You'd think saving a life would make you feel godlike. It doesn't.It just makes you aware of how fragile everything is.
When they left, I stayed.
The floor was quiet, except for the ventilator's rhythmic sigh. The nurses rotated out. Anthony leaned in the doorway, coffee in hand. "You're still here?"
"Charting."
"You're staring at him."
"I'm charting."
He smirked. "Whatever helps you sleep."
"I don't sleep."
"Figured." He took a sip. "You gonna tell me who he is?"
I didn't answer. My throat was dry, my pulse still a drum.
He gestured toward the bed. "That crash victim doesn't look random."
"He's nobody."
Anthony chuckled. "Nobody gets you pacing at two in the morning."
"Drop it."
He held up his hands. "Fine. But when he wakes up, and I see the fireworks, I'm taking popcorn duty."
"Out," I said.
He grinned and left.
Silence returned, heavy and alive.
I pulled up a chair beside Ethan's bed. The monitors blinked like lazy eyes. I studied his face—the swelling, the bruises, the familiar scar near his temple.
Eight years since the barn. Eight years since Kayla's laugh cut through me like glass. And now he was here, broken, in my hands again.
"Hard-headed," I murmured. "You always had to win, didn't you?"
The ventilator hissed. The heart monitor beeped steadily, mocking me with every beat.
I touched his wrist, just for a second, feeling that pulse I'd fought for. Warm. Stronger than it had any right to be.
"Don't make me regret this," I whispered.
His eyelids flickered.
I froze. "Ethan?"
Nothing. Just reflex. Nerve activity. I told myself that.
Still, I leaned closer. "You hear me, cowboy? You don't get to die and make me look bad. Stay alive long enough for me to tell you exactly how much I hate you."
The monitor kept its lazy rhythm, indifferent.
By dawn, the world looked washed out.The city outside the window was all in gray light, with sirens fading into the distance. I hadn't left his side.
A nurse peeked in. "Dr. Maren, you need a break."
"Five minutes."
"That's what you said two hours ago."
I forced a smile. "I'm consistent."
She left me alone.
I stood, stretched, and glanced at his chart again. Vitals steady. Pressure down. Miraculous. He'd survive—probably wake up with a headache and a new personality.
Lucky him.
Unlucky me.
I stared at the scar just below his hairline, the one from when we were sixteen. He'd fallen off a horse, refused treatment, and told me scars built character.
"Guess you're collecting them now," I muttered.
The monitor beeped twice in quick succession.
I stepped closer. "Don't even think about it."
Beep.Pause.Beep.
Then silence.
My heart jumped into my throat. "Ethan!"
Before I could move, the line spiked back, steady, teasing. False alarm.
I exhaled, shaking my head. "Still a drama queen."
The relief hit so hard it burned. I pressed my hand to the cold rail of his bed.
"You die on my shift again, I swear I'll drag you back just to kill you myself."
He didn't move.
The machines kept their rhythm.
I stood there, pulse pounding, realizing I hadn't blinked in a while.
The alarm quieted. The silence stretched.
For the first time all night, I felt the fatigue crash through me.
I sank into the chair, elbows on my knees, staring at the man I'd saved.
He'd broken me once. Now I'd saved him twice.
"What are you doing, girl?" I muttered. "Ugh. We are so far beyond doctor-patient right now."