Page 30 of What We Break
"Warren?" Dr. Cervantes says. "Can you tell me where you hurt?"
"Chest," Warren whispers. "Hard to breathe."
"We're going to take good care of you," Laine tells him, her voicecalm and reassuring. The same tone she used with the butterfly guy last night, but more serious now. More focused.
"Any loss of consciousness at the scene?" Dr. Cervantes asks me.
"Negative. He's been conscious and responsive the whole time. Complained of chest pain and difficulty breathing from the start."
They've got him. My job's done. I know I should get back to Tony and the paperwork, then head out for the next call. But something keeps me standing there, watching Laine work.
She's different in this context. Still competent, still caring, but there's an intensity to her that I didn't see last night. No hesitation, no wasted movement. She's already two steps ahead, anticipating what Cervantes needs before he asks for it. This is life and death, not festival weirdness. This is what she really does.
And she's really fucking good at it.
"Reid?" Tony appears beside me. "We need to clear out. There's two more coming in from the scene."
Right. Other victims. Other people who need help. I can't stand here watching Laine when there's work to do.
But as we're heading back toward the ambulance bay, I catch her eye for just a second. She gives me the smallest nod—professional acknowledgment, but there's something else there too. Something that saysI see youin a deeper way.
Or maybe it's just her normal look, and I'm reading way too much into it. We've had one date. That's all.
Get it together, Garrison.
"You okay?" Tony asks as we're walking back to the ambulance.
"Yeah. Why?"
"You seem... I don't know. Distracted."
Distracted. That's one word for it. "Just want to make sure Warren's okay."
"He's in good hands. Cervantes is a good trauma doc."
"And Laine," I add without thinking.
Tony grins. "Ah. There it is."
"What?"
"You were staring at her like you want to hump her leg. Again."
"Rude! That was my normal face in there. I wasn't staring. I'm a fucking professional asshole."
"Right. And I'm the Easter bunny."
"You'd make a great Easter bunny. Very fluffy energy."
"I will crash this ambulance."
Before I can respond, our radio crackles again.
"Unit Four, respond back to I-5 southbound, mile marker 194. Additional patient needs transport."
As we head back to the site, the rig rattles under my boots and I can't stop picturing her hands. The way she moved around Warren—no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just calm, steady competence while everything around her was chaos. Different from last night. Harder edges. But the same warmth underneath, the same care. She's the real deal.
Okay. Enough.
