Page 22 of Vital Signs
“Doctor,” he replied, equally carefully. The word landed much too formally. Like a door closed a little too hard.
I’m suggesting… that we get it out of our systems. One time.
We worked like that for hours. Efficient. Clean. Separate but orbiting the same patients, the same crises. He deferred to my assessmentswithout commentary. And I anticipated his orders before he spoke them and neveroncelooked at him when I did. Even if it killed me. We were excellent together in the way that made people stop noticing us at all.
Clean cut professionalism.
Which somehow felt worse.
Midway through the shift, a trauma alert came in. MVC — motor vehicle collision. Multiple injuries. The room filled fast. Noise. Motion. Controlled chaos.
I took point at the bedside. Desmond hovered near the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching me work with an intensity that made my skin prickle even without his touch. At one point, I hesitated, eyes flicking to the monitor, recalculating.
“Anya,” he said. Just my name. Nothing else.
“SATs are dropping.” I didn't need to look at him to know what he was trying to tell me. “I see it.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “You've got this.”
Something in his voice nearly cracked me open.
That was when the interruption came from behind me, sharp and poorly timed. “Wow,” a new voice said. “Didn't realize Vaughn was doing one-on-one coaching again.”
I didn't turn right away. I finished securing the line, checked the monitor, and stepped back from the bed before looking over my shoulder.
It was Carter Ashbury. Third-year resident, a year ahead of me. Smart. Mouthy. The type of man who confused confidence with skill.
Desmond stiffened at the foot of the bed. His expression didn't change, but I felt the shift, anyway. A tightening. Awithdrawal.
“Anne-ya doesn’t need coaching,” Carter went on, glancing between us. The mispronunciation made me twitch, but I brushed it off. “Looks like she had it handled.”
“I did,” I said calmly. “I do.”
“Anya,” Des said, his voice clipped.
“Yes?” I turned, freezing. Had I made a mistake? Had I messed up?
“Her name is pronounced Anya Ashbury.“
Carter smiled, thin and knowing. “Sure. Just seems like she gets a lot of… latitude.” It wasn't his words that hit, it was the way he practically sneered when he said it.
Desmond opened his mouth, but I spoke first. “If you have a clinical concern,” I managed evenly, “you can raise it with me. Or you can raise it with Dr. Vaughn through the proper channels. What you don't get to do is editorialize in a trauma bay.”
The room went quiet. It wasn’t even close to silent — monitors still beeped, nurses still moved — butaware. Carter flushed. “I didn't mean?—”
“I know exactly what you meant,” I said. But my voice didn't rise. That was the point. “And you're wrong.”
I turned back to the patient, dismissal complete.
Desmond didn't look at Carter. His eyes were onmenow, something dark and unreadable there. Respect, yes. Gratitude, maybe. And something else that made my pulse jump despite myself.
“Doctor,” he said to Carter at last, cool as ice. “If you're done speculating, you can assist Dr. Levin in triage.”
Carter left without another word. Only then did Desmond step closer, lowering his voice. “You shouldn't have done that.”
I didn't look at him. “I know.” A beat. “Neither should you.”
“I know. But triage will do him good,” he said anyway. “Thank you.”
