Page 100 of The Clinch
Now sirens fade in the distance, then swell again. Gurneys clatter over the seam in the concrete. The air smells of exhaust, summer humidity, and antiseptic.
A paramedic is laughing too loudly by the doors. Someone in scrubs is running past me with a bag of saline. A security guard sips coffee and looks bored, which means nothing has exploded yet.
I adjust my badge at my hip and push inside.
The ER swallows me. Fluorescent light. The constant beep and hiss of machines. Voices layered over each other—quick, sharp, overlapping. A kid wailing. A man swearing. A nurse calling out a blood pressure.
And underneath it all, the familiar hum of adrenaline that makes me feel useful.
I wash up, tie my hair tighter, and step into triage.
Marco is at the charge desk with an iced coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other, running the place the way a conductor runs an orchestra—sharp, smug, and mildly terrifying.
He looks up. Narrows his gaze.
“Oh,” he says slowly. “You look… rested.”
I keep my face blank. “Thanks, I guess?”
He watches me lift the coffee. The ring catches the light, bright and unapologetic.
“That is not the complexion of a woman who spent her day off color-coding med school notes.”
I hate that the comment lands at all, and more that Marco notices.
“It’s called sleep,” I say dryly.
“Sweetheart.” He settles back, “I’ve worked nights with you for three years. I know your version of sleep. This isn’t it.”
I smile before I can stop it. Small and traitorous.
He grins. “You’re glowing.”
“I’m not.”
He hums, satisfied, and nods at my hand. “Okay, Miss Fiancée. I see you.”
“I’m on trauma bay,” I cut in before he can turn it into a TED Talk.
“Yes, you are,” he says, unbothered. “But before you sprint away, I want details.”
I stare at him. “Get yourself your own boy toy.”
“Working on it,” he says cheerfully. “But I don’t know if I can beat Lionheart.”
Marco gets to watch that land, which is its own humiliation. I take a sip of coffee to buy time, because I’m not discussing Leo Carver’s anything in the middle of the ER.
Marco’s grin goes feral. “Oh my God. You spent your day off getting laid.”
He raises his hand for a high five. I look at him like he’s insane, then laugh despite myself and meet it.
“One more word,” I warn, “and I’m reporting you to HR.”
That’s the part I hate.
Not Marco clocking that I got laid.
The way the ring flashes once, and suddenly I’m not just Liz Adler, nurse on trauma bay, future med student, woman with a shift to get through. I’m somebody’s fiancée. His. The label settles on me so fast it feels preloaded, as if all the work I’ve done to make myself legible on my own terms can be swallowed whole by one bright stone and the wrong set of headlines.
