Page 18 of His Orders

Ivy’s right. She’s a complication I don’t need, and yet, for the life of me, I can’t seem to stop chasing her.

Thankfully, there are other things in my agenda for the day. Work comes first, so after finishing breakfast, I head home, take a quick shower, and get to work, to the hospital where everything makes sense. By the time I step inside, I’ve already shed the rest of the world like a second skin. My body moves on instinct—one foot in front of the other, my mind clicking into gear the second I check the board.

Multi-car collision. Two DOAs. One critical.

The last one is mine.

A woman in her forties, crushed between steel and impact, her ribs shattered, one lung collapsed, internal bleeding turning her abdomen into a goddamn war zone. She’s barely clinging to consciousness when they wheel her in, her pulse a weak, flickering thing. The kind of case where you either bring them back or lose them in your hands.

Not on my fucking watch.

I scrub in, tearing my gloves on, rolling my shoulders back as I step into the OR.

"Vitals?" I bark as I take my place.

"BP’s dropping—sixty over forty and falling," one of the nurses fires back.

I flick a glance at the monitor. Not good enough.

"Push another unit of blood. Get ready to intubate if she dips below sixty." I reach for the scalpel, bracing myself. "Let’s move."

The first cut is quick, slicing through skin and muscle, revealing the damage beneath. Blood wells up instantly, pooling in the cavity like dark ink spreading through water.

"Suction," I order, voice tight. "Clamp that artery before we lose her."

Surgical steel flashes under the blinding lights, hands moving quickly, precisely. I block everything else out—the frantic beeping of the monitors, the tension rippling through the room, the scents of antiseptic and sweat.

For two hours, we fight to keep her alive. And when I finally step back, breathing hard, heart pounding, she’s still here.

"Good work," someone says, but I barely hear them against the rush in my ears. Next, I review charts, do rounds, handle an overly ambitious intern who nearly botched a central line placement, then field a tense conversation with a family who doesn’t want to hear that their patriarch’s drinking has finally caught up with him.

Before I know it, it’s afternoon, and I’m meeting Drew for lunch. He’s already at the restaurant when I arrive, nursing a beer and scrolling through his phone. When he sees me, he stands, claps a firm hand on my shoulder, and grins.

“Good to see you, man. Thought the hospital finally swallowed you whole.”

I smile, taking my seat across from him. “Not for lack of trying.”

The conversation flows easily. Work, family, the ongoing disaster of his parents’ divorce. He talks about it with a kind of weary detachment, like he’s used to it, like he made peace with their dysfunction a long time ago. He doesn’t mention Ivy, and I don’t bring her up, even though she’s been lingering in the back of my mind all damn morning.

I go through the motions—laugh at the right moments, throw in my usual dry remarks, pretend I’m not distracted. But the longer I sit there, the more I feel an itch under my skin, a low, insistent irritation in my bloodstream.

By the time I leave the restaurant, it’s settled into something darker. I tell myself I just need a distraction and go to a bar. I find a stool at the far end, push up my sleeves, and order a drink.

Sipping slowly, I let the burn settle in my chest, letting the noise wash over me. A woman slides into the seat next to mine, blonde, confident, wearing the kind of perfume that’s meant to be noticed.

She leans in slightly, just enough for it to be intentional. “You here alone?”

I glance at her, take in the way she’s looking at me, already waiting for an invitation.

Saying yes, taking her home, letting her distract me, letting her pull me under and erase the lingering pull in my chest—that would be easy. But I can’t because all I can think about is Ivy.

I see the way she smirked over the rim of her coffee cup. The way her eyes softened for half a second before she put her armor back on. The way she walked away without looking back.

I toss back the rest of my drink, drop some cash on the bar, and stand.

The blonde pouts, tilting her head. “Leaving so soon?”

With a curt not, I move aside, stepping away. “Yeah. Wrong company.”

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