Emergency Contact

Emergency Contact

C.G. Macington

Rivera Publishing

Copyright © 2025 Andrew Rivera

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 978-1-7389180-5-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Emergency Contact

Act 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Act 2

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Act 3

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Emergency Contact

Act 1

Chapter 1

Liam

The monitor beeps a steady rhythm—a counterpoint to the controlled chaos of Metropolitan General's emergency department. I check the ECG readout, nod, and make a note in the patient's chart.

"Your heart looks good, Mr. Reeves. We'll keep you for observation overnight, but I'm not seeing anything concerning in your tests."

The elderly man clutches his chest. "But the pain was real, Doc. Felt like an elephant sitting on me."

"I believe you." I pat his shoulder. "Sometimes anxiety can mimic heart attack symptoms. We'll run a few more tests to be certain."

I pull the curtain closed as I exit the bay, scanning the department. Three minor cases in the waiting room, two patients awaiting discharge, one waiting on psych consult. A manageable Tuesday morning.

Nurse Chen approaches with a tablet. "Labs back on bay four. Potassium's low."

"Start him on a replacement protocol. I'll check in after I review these scans." I swipe through digital images of a teenager's ankle. "Hairline fracture. Let's get ortho down here."

This is my element—the ordered disorder of emergency medicine. Patterns within chaos. Problems with solutions. No messy emotions or relationship complications, just clinical puzzles needing my expertise.

Three years as attending physician at Metro General, and I've perfected my routine. Work, sleep, occasional run, repeat. Simple. Safe.

"Dr. Winters to trauma bay one. Dr. Winters, trauma bay one." The overhead page interrupts my thoughts.

I hand the tablet back to Chen. "Tell radiology I'll call them back."

The trauma bay is already prepping when I arrive. Trauma nurses setting up IV lines, respiratory therapists checking ventilation equipment. I grab a trauma gown and gloves.

"What's coming?" I ask the charge nurse.

"Multi-vehicle collision on the highway. We're getting two critical patients. First ambulance three minutes out."

I nod, mentally shifting gears. "Let's get two units of O-neg on standby and alert CT they'll need to clear the scanner."

The trauma team assembles—a well-oiled machine I've helped build. No room for error. No space for distraction. Just the pure focus of keeping someone alive.

The ambulance bay doors burst open. Paramedics rush in wheeling a stretcher, one riding the gurney performing chest compressions.

"Thirty-year-old male, unrestrained driver. Found unconscious at the scene with multiple traumatic injuries. BP 80/40, tachy at 140. GCS 6 on arrival, dropped to 3 during transport. We've intubated, two large-bore IVs running wide open."

I step to the head of the bed. "On my count. One, two, three."

We transfer the patient to our trauma bed. Blood soaks through his clothes. His face is barely recognizable beneath lacerations and swelling.

"Start the massive transfusion protocol. I need a FAST scan now."

My hands move automatically—checking pupils, assessing breath sounds, palpating the abdomen. The ultrasound shows free fluid in the abdomen. Internal bleeding.

"He needs an OR now. Call surgery."

The doors burst open again. "Second victim coming in!"

"Chen, stay with this patient. I'll take the next." I strip off my bloody gloves, replacing them with fresh ones as the second gurney rolls in.

"Twenty-eight-year-old female, restrained passenger in the same vehicle. Multiple fractures, possible pneumothorax, pregnant approximately 30 weeks gestation. BP stable but fetal heart tones concerning at 100."

My stomach tightens. Two patients—mother and unborn child.

"Get OB down here stat." I lean over the woman. Her eyes flutter open, panicked. "Ma'am, you're in the hospital. We're taking care of you."

"James," she whispers. "My husband..."

"We're taking care of him too," I say, not revealing that her husband is coding in the next bay.

The ultrasound confirms a collapsed lung. "I need a chest tube tray." I turn to the resident beside me. "Have you done one before?"

"Twice," she answers.

"You're doing this one. I'll guide you."

While the resident prepares, I check the fetal monitor. Heart rate dropping. The OB attending rushes in.

"Fetal bradycardia," I report. "Mother has pneumothorax, multiple fractures, but vitals holding."

"We need to get her to the OR," the OB says. "Emergency C-section."

The resident looks up from prepping the chest tube. "But the pneumothorax—"

"Do it now," I direct. "She needs that chest tube before surgery."

The department doors swing open again. "We've got three more incoming!"

I glance at the trauma board. All bays full. "Move non-critical patients to the hallway. Call in the backup team."

For the next hour, I move between patients—intubating, placing central lines, calling consults. The department transforms into a battlefield hospital. I direct resources, make split-second decisions, work to save as many as we can.

The first patient, James, doesn't make it. Too much blood loss, too much trauma. I'll have to tell his pregnant wife when she wakes up from surgery. Her baby survived—barely—now in NICU fighting its own battle.

By hour three, I've lost track of how many patients I've touched. My scrubs are stained with other people's blood. My back aches from bending over beds. But we've stabilized the situation. Four patients in surgery, two transferred to ICU, one pronounced.

I step into the doctor's lounge, dropping onto a chair. My hands shake slightly as I reach for a cup of coffee. The adrenaline crash is coming.

This is why I became a doctor. Not for the routine ankle fractures or chest pain workups, but for days like today—when my decisions and actions make the immediate difference between life and death. Clean, clear purpose. No ambiguity.

I close my eyes for just a moment, allowing myself five seconds of exhaustion before heading back out. There are still patients waiting, charts to complete, families to update.

The door opens. "Dr. Winters?" It's Chen. "The trauma surgeon needs you in OR 2. The pregnant woman is crashing."

I set down my untouched coffee and stand. Back into the fray.

* * *

Noah

I wheel the gurney through the automatic doors of Metropolitan General's emergency department, my muscles burning from the sprint from the ambulance bay. The patient, a middle-aged man with a construction rod impaled through his thigh, groans despite the fentanyl we pushed en route.

"Male, 42, construction accident, impalement injury to right thigh with significant blood loss. BP 90/60, heart rate 130, oxygen 94% on 15 liters. Two large-bore IVs established, one liter of saline infusing, 100 micrograms fentanyl on board." I deliver the report while scanning the trauma bay, taking in the organized chaos.

That's when I see him.

Across the room, a doctor in navy scrubs looks up from another patient. His eyes—intense, focused—lock with mine for a fraction of a second. Something electric passes between us, a current I can't explain. The world narrows to just this moment, this connection, before reality crashes back in.

"Trauma bay three," a nurse directs, breaking the spell.

I nod and redirect the gurney, but I'm hyperaware of the doctor's presence as he finishes with his patient and moves toward us. His name badge reads "Dr. Winters."

"What do we have?" His voice is deep, controlled.

I repeat my report as we transfer the patient, adding details about the mechanism of injury. Dr. Winters nods, already assessing the impalement.

"Let's get two units O-neg, trauma panel, and portable X-ray. We need to see what vessels might be compromised before we touch that rod."

A young resident fumbles with the ultrasound machine, dropping the gel. Another struggles to place a third IV, missing twice on a visible vein.

Dr. Winters' jaw tightens. "We need access now."

Without thinking, I reach for the IV kit. "I can get it."

His eyes meet mine again—surprise, then something like recognition passing between us. He nods once.

I find a vein in the patient's forearm, sliding the catheter in smoothly on the first attempt. When I look up, Dr. Winters is already reaching for the fluids I've connected, hanging them without a word passing between us.

The patient's blood pressure drops suddenly. "70/40," calls out the monitor tech.

"He's bleeding around the rod," Dr. Winters says, his hands already moving to apply pressure.

I reach for the pressure bandages before he asks, positioning them exactly where needed. Our hands work in tandem, no instructions necessary.

"Need to transfuse faster," he mutters, and I'm already reaching for the rapid infuser, setting it up while he maintains pressure.

The resident stands frozen, watching us work. "Should I—"

"Call vascular and prep for OR," Dr. Winters directs without looking up. His focus is complete, but somehow I sense his next moves before he makes them.

I adjust the lighting without being asked. Hand him instruments before he reaches. Anticipate each step in the resuscitation as if we've worked together for years instead of minutes.

"Pressure's coming up. 90 systolic," I report, watching the monitors.

Dr. Winters nods. "Good work with those pressure bandages. Exactly where they needed to be."

Our eyes meet again over the patient. There's a question in his—the same one I feel. How is this possible? This synchronicity, this wordless understanding.

The vascular surgeon arrives, breaking the moment. As they prepare to move the patient to surgery, Dr. Winters steps back, his gaze finding mine again.

"You're new," he says. Not a question.

"Noah Bennet. Just transferred last week."

He studies me with an intensity that should feel uncomfortable but somehow doesn't. "You work well under pressure."

"So do you."

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile. "I haven't seen many paramedics step in like that."

"I haven't seen many doctors who would let them."

This time, the smile emerges fully, transforming his face. Something flutters in my chest.

"They're ready for him upstairs," a nurse interrupts.

We help transfer the patient to the transport gurney. As they wheel him toward the elevator, Dr. Winters turns to me.

"Thanks for the assist." His voice is professional, but his eyes say something more.

"Anytime, Doctor." I hold his gaze a moment longer than necessary.

"Liam," he corrects, surprising himself with the informality.

"Liam," I repeat, testing the name. It feels right somehow, familiar on my tongue.

The trauma phone rings again, pulling him away. He hesitates, looking back at me with that same puzzled recognition I feel coursing through me.

"I'll be seeing you, Noah," he says tentatively shaking my hand before answering the call.

As I head back to my rig, I try to make sense of what just happened. I've worked with hundreds of doctors over my career, but never experienced anything like this—this immediate understanding, this unspoken communication.

It was like we'd done this dance before, in another life perhaps. Like my hands knew what his mind was thinking before he spoke it. Like we were two parts of the same medical machine, working in perfect harmony.

More than that, though, was the connection I felt when our eyes met. Recognition. Resonance. Something I can't explain but can't deny either.

I climb into the ambulance, my partner already starting the engine for our next call. But my mind stays in that trauma bay, with the doctor whose rhythm matched mine perfectly, whose eyes held questions I suddenly need answers to.

Liam Winters. Something tells me our paths are meant to cross again—and soon.

* * *

Liam

The doors swing shut behind Noah, and I'm left staring at the empty space where he stood. My hands hover mid-air, still warm from our brief contact. What just happened?

"Dr. Winters, we need you in Trauma 3!"

A nurse's voice snaps me back to reality. I blink, clearing my head of whatever strange spell Noah Bennet cast over me.

"On my way," I call back, already moving.

Trauma 3 holds a woman in her fifties, face ashen gray, lips tinged blue. The monitor shows ventricular tachycardia—a lethal heart rhythm if not addressed immediately.

"What's her story?" I ask, pulling on fresh gloves.

"Carol Mendez, 54, collapsed at home. Husband found her unresponsive. Paramedics got ROSC in the field but she's crashing again," the charge nurse reports.

I scan the monitors—blood pressure bottoming out, oxygen saturation plummeting. Her heart is failing.

"She's going into V-fib! Starting CPR," a resident announces, already compressing the woman's chest.

"Push one of epi," I order, moving to the head of the bed. "Let's get the ultrasound."

My hands move with practiced precision, but my mind splits in two—one half focused on the dying woman before me, the other drifting back to Noah's eyes, to that bizarre sense of recognition.

The resident pauses compressions as I position the ultrasound probe on the patient's chest. The heart barely contracts, a weak, fluttering motion.

"Tamponade," I announce, spotting the telltale collection of fluid around the heart. "Prep for pericardiocentesis."

As I reach for the pericardiocentesis tray, I feel a phantom presence beside me—as if Noah stands at my shoulder, anticipating my next move. The sensation is so vivid I almost turn to look.

"Dr. Winters?" The resident's voice sounds concerned.

I refocus. "Prepping for pericardial tap. Continue compressions."

The needle slides between my fingers, and for a split second, I hesitate. This never happens. My hands never hesitate.

What is wrong with me?

I take a steadying breath and guide the needle toward the patient's heart, feeling for the right spot with practiced fingers. The sensation when the needle penetrates the pericardial sac is unmistakable. Dark, bloody fluid fills the syringe.

"Got it," I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

As the pressure around Carol's heart decreases, the monitors begin to show improvement. Her blood pressure inches up. The resident continues compressions while I drain the fluid.

"Hold compressions," I order after another minute. "Let's see what we've got."

The room falls silent as we watch the monitor. A beat. Then another. Irregular at first, then steadying.

"We have a rhythm," the nurse announces. "BP coming up."

Relief floods the room, but I remain tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn't. Carol's vitals continue to stabilize.

"Nice save, Dr. Winters," the resident says, wiping sweat from her brow.

I nod, distracted. "Let's get cardiology down here and order an emergency echo. I want to know what caused the tamponade."

As the team moves to follow my instructions, I step back, stripping off my gloves. My hands are steady now, but something inside me trembles.

Noah's face flashes in my mind again—his easy confidence, the way he handed me instruments before I asked, how his eyes locked with mine in perfect understanding.

I escape to the staff bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The man in the mirror looks haunted, water dripping from his stubbled chin.

"Get it together," I mutter to my reflection.

But the feeling persists—like a door long closed has cracked open, letting in a draft that disturbs the careful order of my life. Working with Noah felt like...coming home. Like finding a missing piece I hadn't realized was gone.

I dry my face with rough paper towels, the abrasion grounding me in reality. This is ridiculous. I met the man for all of twenty minutes. We worked well together—that happens sometimes in emergency medicine. The adrenaline, the high-stakes environment—it creates false intimacy.

That's all this is. It has to be.

Back at the nurses' station, I update Carol's chart, forcing myself to focus on each keystroke. The familiar routine of documentation should calm me, but my mind keeps drifting.

What if I run into Noah again? The thought sends an electric current through my chest. What if I don't? That possibility feels even worse.

"Earth to Dr. Winters." My colleague Dr. Chen waves a hand in front of my face. "You planning to finish that chart today?"

I blink, realizing I've been staring at the same screen for minutes. "Sorry. Long day."

She leans against the counter. "You okay? You seem...off."

"Fine. Just tired." The lie comes easily.

Chen doesn't look convinced but lets it drop. "The Mendez case was impressive. Not many people would have caught that tamponade so quickly."

"Just did what needed doing." I close the chart and stand up. "I'm going to check on her."

As I walk to Carol's room, now stabilized and waiting for transfer to the cardiac ICU, I realize I'm scanning the ED for a familiar face. For Noah. The realization stops me cold.

I've spent years building walls around myself after Jason left. Years cultivating professional detachment, keeping colleagues at arm's length. And now one paramedic with knowing eyes has me questioning everything.

I check Carol's vitals, confirm her transfer is on track, and retreat to the doctors' lounge. The coffee is burnt and bitter, but I drink it anyway, needing something to do with my hands.

For years, I've functioned perfectly well by keeping my emotions locked down tight. Emotions cloud judgment, and in emergency medicine, clear judgment saves lives. I've built my entire identity around being the doctor who stays calm, who never gets rattled.

But Noah rattled me. In twenty minutes, he cracked foundations I thought were solid concrete.

I don't know if I can handle that. Don't know if I want to.

The lounge door opens, and I tense, irrationally hoping and fearing it might be him.

Chapter 2

Liam

It's Dr. Kapoor who walks in, not Noah. She heads straight for the coffee machine, grimacing at the dark sludge inside.

"That looks lethal," she comments, pouring herself a cup anyway.

"Hey Mira, probably is." I check my watch. My shift ended twenty minutes ago, but I can't bring myself to leave yet. "How's the Mendez transfer going?"

"Smooth. Cardiology's taking good care of her." She sits across from me, studying my face. "You know, you could go home. We've got things covered."

I nod absently, turning my empty cup in my hands. "Just finishing up some paperwork."

It's a lie. My paperwork is done. I'm lingering because... because what? On the off chance Noah might return with another patient? Pathetic.

"Right." Kapoor's tone says she doesn't believe me. "Well, don't forget about the EMS meeting tomorrow. Nine AM sharp."

I frown. "EMS meeting?"

"The quarterly review? With all the paramedic supervisors?" She raises an eyebrow. "Please tell me you didn't forget. You're the medical director."

The EMS medical director position. Right. I'd taken it on six months ago when Dr. Levinson retired. It mostly involves reviewing protocols, signing off on continuing education, and quarterly meetings with the paramedic supervisors to discuss any issues between the hospital and emergency services.

"Of course not," I lie again. "Nine AM. Conference room B."

"Conference room A," she corrects. "They moved it, remember? Sent an email last week."

"Right. A." I stand up, tossing my cup in the trash. "I should head out."

As I change in the locker room, I mentally review my responsibilities for tomorrow's meeting. Nothing complex—just routine updates and addressing any concerns from the field. I've prepared the slides already. It'll be fine.

* * *

It's not fine.

I arrive at Conference Room A fifteen minutes early, coffee in hand, laptop open to review my presentation one last time. The room is empty, which is exactly how I like it. Time to center myself, organize my thoughts.

The door opens at 8:50. I look up, expecting to see one of the paramedic supervisors I've worked with before.

Instead, Noah Bennet walks in.

He's wearing a crisp blue uniform shirt with paramedic patches and supervisor stripes. His dark hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered, and he carries a leather portfolio under one arm. He stops short when he sees me, surprise flickering across his face before it transforms into a warm smile.

"Dr. Winters." He crosses the room, hand extended. "Good to see you again."

I stand on autopilot, taking his hand. The same electric current from yesterday zips through me at the contact. "Bennet. You're... a supervisor?"

"Just promoted last month." His hand lingers in mine a beat too long before releasing. "I transferred from County General's system. This is my first meeting here."

Of course. Of course he's under my supervision now. Because the universe apparently has a twisted sense of humor.

"Congratulations on the promotion." My voice sounds distant to my own ears.

"Thanks." He sets his portfolio on the table, taking the seat directly to my right. Close enough that I catch the clean scent of his soap. "I've been looking forward to working with you in this capacity. Your reputation precedes you."

"Does it?" I take a sip of coffee to hide whatever expression might be trying to form on my face.

"Absolutely. The paramedics all say you're the best medical director they've had. Fair, knowledgeable, willing to listen to concerns from the field."

Before I can respond, the door opens again as other supervisors begin filing in. I recognize most of them—Martinez from the west side station, Thompson from downtown, Chen from the south district. They greet me with familiar nods, then turn curious eyes to Noah.

I clear my throat. "Everyone, this is Supervisor Bennet. He's transferred in from County to take over the east district."

Noah stands, shaking hands all around, instantly at ease in a way I've never managed. He laughs at something Martinez says, and the sound does something strange to my chest.

I busy myself with my laptop, pulling up the presentation slides while trying to ignore Noah's presence beside me. It's impossible. Every movement, every breath he takes registers on my awareness like a blip on radar.

The meeting begins. I go through the slides mechanically, discussing protocol updates, reviewing response times, addressing equipment concerns. On the surface, I'm the consummate professional—calm, articulate, focused.

Inside, I'm a mess.

Noah asks insightful questions. He offers thoughtful suggestions about improving handoffs between paramedics and ED staff. At one point, he builds on an idea I present before I've fully articulated it—just like yesterday, anticipating my thoughts before I voice them.

The other supervisors notice. I catch Thompson and Martinez exchanging glances when Noah completes my sentence about a new medication protocol.

"Exactly," I say, trying to sound normal. "That's precisely what I was thinking."

Noah smiles, a quick flash of understanding passing between us. "Great minds."

The meeting wraps up after an hour. As the supervisors gather their things, Noah lingers, organizing his notes with deliberate slowness.

When we're the only two left, he turns to me. "So, I guess we'll be working together regularly now."

"Looks that way." I focus on shutting down my laptop, avoiding his eyes.

"I'm glad." His voice drops lower, more personal. "Yesterday was... something else."

I finally look up, meeting his gaze. The connection from yesterday snaps back into place immediately, like a circuit completing. "Yes. It was."

"I've never experienced anything like that before." He leans slightly closer. "The way we worked together. It was like—"

"We'd done it a thousand times before," I finish.

He nods, eyes never leaving mine. "Exactly."

"I should get back to the ED," I say, gathering my laptop. The sensible choice. The safe one.

"Actually..." Noah rubs the back of his neck. "I was wondering if you wanted to grab some coffee from the cafeteria first? If you have time, that is."

My immediate instinct is to decline. I have charts to review, patients to check on, a department to run. Perfect excuses.

But something in his expression—hopeful, open—makes the refusal die in my throat.

"Sure." The word escapes before I can catch it. "I have about twenty minutes before my next meeting."

Noah's face lights up with a smile so genuine it almost hurts to look at. "Great! That's—that's great."

His enthusiasm catches me off guard. It's just coffee in a hospital cafeteria, not exactly a five-star experience. Yet he's practically beaming as we walk together down the corridor.

"I've been meaning to try the coffee here anyway," he says as we wait for the elevator. "At County, it was basically brown water. Had to bring my own from home to survive."

"Don't get your hopes up. Ours isn't winning any awards either."

The elevator arrives, and we step in. It's empty except for us, and suddenly the space feels much smaller than it should. Noah stands close enough that I can smell his aftershave—something clean and subtle with notes of cedar.

"I'll be the judge of that," he says. "I've developed quite the palate after years of terrible hospital coffee."

The cafeteria is half-full, mostly with staff grabbing late breakfasts or early lunches. We get our coffees—I take mine black, Noah adds cream and sugar to his—and find a small table in the corner.

"So," Noah says after taking a sip and making an exaggerated face of consideration, "verdict's in. Slightly better than County, but that's a low bar."

I find myself smiling despite my nervousness. "Told you."

"Worth it for the company, though."

The comment hangs between us, unexpectedly intimate. I focus on my coffee cup, turning it slowly between my palms.

"How long have you been at Metropolitan?" Noah asks, mercifully changing the subject.

"Three years as an attending. I moved here from Ottawa before that."

"You must know this place inside and out."

"Pretty much. It's home now." I pause, realizing how true that is. "What about you? Before County?"

"Started out in Calgary right after paramedic school. Worked there for five years, then Vancouver for three, then County for two." He shrugs. "I've moved around a bit."

"Any particular reason?"

Something flickers across his face—a shadow of something deeper. "My brother Matt died when I was twenty-two. Car accident. After that, I had trouble staying in one place too long."

The personal revelation catches me off guard. "I'm sorry about your brother."

"Thanks. It's what got me into emergency medicine, actually. The paramedics who responded to his accident... they did everything right. He just had injuries that weren't survivable. But I saw how they tried, how they treated him with dignity even when it was clear he wouldn't make it." Noah's eyes meet mine. "I wanted to be that for someone else."

The honesty in his voice touches something in me. "That's... that's a powerful motivation."

"What about you? Why emergency medicine?"

I consider giving my standard answer—the one about loving the challenge and variety. Instead, I find myself saying, "I like fixing things that are broken. In the moment. Immediate results."

"And people?"

"What about them?"

"Do you like fixing broken people too?"

The question hits closer to home than I'm comfortable with. "People are more complicated than medical problems."

Noah studies me over the rim of his coffee cup. "True. But sometimes more rewarding when you get it right."

There's a weight to his words that makes my chest tighten. The air between us feels charged, like the atmosphere before a storm.

"What made you transfer to Metropolitan?" I ask, desperate to redirect.

"Needed a change. County was getting..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Stagnant. And I'd heard good things about the program here."

"From?"

"Around." He smiles, something playful in his expression. "Plus, turns out the medical director is pretty impressive."

Heat rises to my face. Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. I check it, almost relieved for the interruption.

"Emergency?" Noah asks.

I nod, already standing. "Trauma coming in. Multiple GSWs."

"Duty calls." He stands too. "Rain check on finishing our coffee?"

"Yeah." I hesitate, torn between the pull I feel toward him and the safety of professional distance. "I should go."

"Liam." My first name in his voice stops me. "Yesterday wasn't a fluke. What happened between us in that trauma room—that connection—it doesn't just happen."

I meet his eyes, unable to deny the truth of what he's saying. "I know."

"Good." He smiles again, softer this time. "Go save lives, Dr. Winters. I'll see you around."

I turn and hurry toward the ED, my mind already shifting to the incoming trauma, but part of me remains in that cafeteria, sitting across from Noah Bennet and the possibilities he represents.

Chapter 3

Noah

"Thirty-year-old male, GSW to the abdomen, BP 90/60, heart rate 120, decreased breath sounds on the left." I relay the information to the trauma team as we wheel the gurney through Metropolitan General's emergency department doors. My partner Dani and I transfer our patient to the waiting trauma bay where Dr. Chen—not Liam—stands ready with her team.

A pang of disappointment hits me harder than expected. I scan the room instinctively, searching for those intense eyes and steady hands that worked alongside mine so perfectly last time.

"Where do you need us, Dr. Chen?" I ask, maintaining professional focus despite the hollow feeling in my chest.

"We're good here, thanks. You can clear for your next call," she says, already focused on the patient.

I help transfer monitors and give my final report, but something feels off. The handoff lacks the seamless rhythm I experienced with Liam. Working with Dr. Chen is fine—she's competent and direct—but there's no silent communication, no anticipating each other's next move.

"Coming, Bennet?" Dani calls from the doorway, radio already squawking with another dispatch.

"Yeah, just finishing up." I strip off my gloves and follow her out, throwing one last glance over my shoulder at the trauma bay.

Back in the rig, Dani raises an eyebrow at me. "You okay? You seem distracted."

"I'm fine." I wipe down equipment with more force than necessary. "Just thinking about the protocols we discussed at yesterday's meeting."

"Uh-huh." She doesn't sound convinced. "Nothing to do with a certain ER doctor who wasn't there today?"

My head snaps up. "What?"

"Come on, Noah. I saw how you two worked together on that construction accident last week. Like some weird medical mind-meld. Then you disappeared with him after yesterday's meeting."

"We just had coffee." I focus on restocking our supplies, avoiding her gaze.

"Sure." She grins, buckling her seatbelt as we pull away from the hospital. "And I'm just saying you looked like someone stole your puppy when Chen walked in instead of him."

I don't answer, but her observation rattles me. Have I really become so transparent? I've known Liam for all of two encounters, yet his absence left me feeling off-balance, like walking into a room and finding the furniture rearranged.

We spend the next few hours handling routine calls—a fall at a nursing home, a diabetic with low blood sugar, a psychiatric transfer. My body goes through the motions while my mind keeps circling back to the same question: What is happening to me?

After dropping our last patient at County, we get cleared to return to base for shift change. I stare out the window as Dani drives, buildings blurring past.

"When Jake died," I say suddenly, surprising myself, "I promised I'd never miss something important again. That I'd always be present, always paying attention."

Dani glances over, giving me space to continue.

"But today, I wasn't fully there. I was looking for someone who wasn't even working. That's never happened to me before."

"You're human, Noah. Even with your freaky sixth sense for patient care."

I shake my head. "It's not just that. When I'm around Liam, everything clicks into place. Like we've done this dance a thousand times before. I've never experienced anything like it."

"So what's the problem? Sounds like something worth exploring."

"The problem is I've known him for about five minutes total, and I'm already disappointed when he's not around. That's not normal."

"Normal is overrated." Dani pulls into the station parking lot. "My grandma always said when something feels that right, that fast, you don't question it. You run toward it."

"Your grandma never met Dr. Liam Winters," I mutter.

"No, but she met my grandpa and married him three weeks later. They had fifty-two years together before he died." She parks and turns to face me. "Look, I'm not saying propose to the guy. Just... don't overthink it. Whatever this connection is, it's rare."

I nod, gathering my things as we exit the rig. "Thanks, Dani."

"Anytime, boss." She punches my arm lightly. "For what it's worth, he looked at you the same way."

Her words follow me into the station, where I mechanically complete my end-of-shift duties. I can't stop thinking about that moment in the cafeteria when Liam told me about choosing emergency medicine—the vulnerability in his eyes, quickly masked but unmistakably there.

In the locker room, I change out of my uniform, still puzzling over this unexpected pull toward him. I've dated before, felt attraction and even love, but never this immediate sense of recognition. Like finding a missing piece I didn't know was lost.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

Sorry I missed you today. Had to cover at our satellite campus. You working tomorrow? - Liam

I stare at the screen, a smile spreading across my face. He noticed my absence too. Maybe I'm not the only one feeling this strange connection.

I type back: Definitely. I'm sure we'll see each other soon.

Whatever this is between us, I'm not running from it. For the first time since Jake died, I'm ready to follow my instincts toward something—someone—that feels inexplicably right.

* * *

Liam

I catch sight of Noah the moment he pushes through the ER doors. He's guiding a stretcher with an elderly woman who appears stable—elevated leg, conscious, talking. My heart performs that strange flutter I've been trying to diagnose in myself since our first meeting.

"Seventy-eight-year-old female, fall at home," Noah announces to the charge nurse. "Possible ankle fracture, vitals stable."

I busy myself with a chart, pretending I haven't noticed him. It's ridiculous—I'm a grown man, a physician with years of training, yet I'm acting like a nervous intern.

"Dr. Winters." Noah's voice carries across the department.

I look up, trying to appear casually professional. "Bennet. What have you got?"

He briefs me on the patient while we walk to bay three. I'm hyperaware of how our shoulders nearly touch, how his steps match mine without effort.

"Mrs. Lowell, I'm Dr. Winters," I introduce myself, examining the swollen ankle. "We'll get you some pain relief and X-rays right away."

"Such nice young men," Mrs. Lowell says, patting Noah's hand. "This one kept me laughing the whole ride over."

Noah smiles, and something tightens in my chest. "Just doing my job, ma'am."

I write orders for the ankle and turn to Noah. "Thanks for bringing her in. Doesn't look too complicated."

"Yeah, quiet shift so far." He lingers, clearly wanting to say more.

The awkward silence stretches between us until a monitor alarm shrieks from across the department.

"Code Blue, bay eight!" a nurse shouts.

I sprint toward the sound, aware of Noah following close behind. In bay eight, a middle-aged man convulses on the gurney, his monitor showing ventricular fibrillation.

"What happened?" I demand, pulling on gloves.

"Post-op cholecystectomy, discharged yesterday," the nurse explains, attaching defibrillator pads. "Came in with abdominal pain. Vitals were stable five minutes ago."

I scan the department for other physicians. No one. Dr. Chen is in trauma one, Dr. Kapoor left for a meeting, and the residents are in didactics.

"Shock at 200," I order, beginning compressions while the nurse charges the defibrillator.

"Clear!" Everyone steps back as the patient's body jerks with the current.

No conversion. I resume compressions, mind racing through possibilities. "Get me an ultrasound, now."

Noah positions the portable ultrasound before I even ask. I glance at him, startled by his anticipation, then focus on the screen.

"Cardiac tamponade," I mutter, seeing the telltale fluid around the heart. "He's bleeding into his pericardium. We need to drain it immediately."

The nurse hands me a pericardiocentesis kit. Time slows as I realize what we're facing—a complex, risky procedure with no backup.

"I need another set of hands," I say. "Someone who can—"

"I'm here." Noah steps forward, snapping on gloves. "Tell me what you need."

I hesitate. He's a paramedic, not a surgeon. But something in his steady gaze convinces me.

"I'll guide the needle into the pericardial sac. You'll need to hold the ultrasound perfectly still so I can visualize the approach."

Noah positions himself with the ultrasound probe, his hands rock-steady. "Ready when you are."

I insert the needle, watching its trajectory on the screen. "Two centimeters left... now straight in, slowly."

Noah adjusts the probe with uncanny precision, giving me the exact view I need. The needle advances into the pericardial space.

"Got it." Dark blood flows into the syringe. The patient's pressure immediately improves.

"We need to place a drain," I say. "This is temporary."

What happens next feels like a choreographed dance. Noah hands me each instrument before I ask, positions himself exactly where needed, and anticipates every move. When I need to secure the catheter, he's already prepared the suture.

"How did you know to load the needle driver that way?" I ask, bewildered.

"Just felt right." His eyes meet mine over our surgical masks.

The monitor shows a stable rhythm. The patient's color improves.

"We need to get him to surgery," I say, stepping back. "That was..."

"Yeah," Noah agrees. "It was."

The trauma team arrives to transport the patient. We stand in the aftermath, both breathing hard, both aware that what just happened wasn't normal.

In the staff bathroom, I wash blood from my hands. Noah enters, his scrub top splattered with evidence of our emergency procedure.

"You want to tell me how you knew exactly what to do in there?" I ask, watching him in the mirror.

He shrugs, turning on the faucet beside me. "I've assisted with chest tubes before, but nothing like that. I just... knew what you needed."

"That's not possible. The way you loaded that needle driver—that's a specific technique I learned from my mentor in residency. No one else does it that way."

Our eyes meet in the mirror. Water runs over our hands, forgotten.

"I can't explain it," Noah says quietly. "But I felt like I'd done it a hundred times before. With you."

The air between us charges with something electric. I turn off the water, reach for paper towels.

"This isn't normal," I say, voice low. "What's happening here."

"No," he agrees. "It's not."

Our fingers brush as he takes a towel from me. That same jolt, that same recognition.

"We saved him," Noah says. "Whatever this is—" he gestures between us, "—it works."

"It works," I echo, unable to deny the evidence. "But it doesn't make sense."

Noah steps closer. "Does it have to?"

My pager interrupts the moment, demanding my attention. I check it, grateful for the distraction.

"I have to go," I say, backing toward the door. "Patient in trauma one."

Noah nods, understanding. "Go. But Liam— "We should talk about this. Really talk."

"I know," I admit, pausing at the threshold. "We will."

As I walk away, I feel the pull of him like gravity, drawing me back. Whatever this connection is—this impossible synchronicity—it's becoming harder to ignore with each encounter.

* * *

Liam

I find Mira in the doctors' lounge, scrolling through patient charts on her tablet. The room is mercifully empty except for her, which is exactly what I need right now.

"Got a minute?" I ask, closing the door behind me.

She looks up, reading something in my expression that makes her set the tablet aside. "For you? Always. What's up?"

I sink into the chair across from her, unsure how to begin. How do you explain something you don't understand yourself?

"I'm experiencing something... unusual," I start, running a hand through my hair. "With one of the paramedic supervisors."

Mira's eyebrows shoot up. "Unusual how? Are we talking professionally unusual or personally unusual?"

"Both? Neither?" I exhale heavily. "It's Noah Bennet. The new supervisor."

"Tall guy? Great smile? I've seen him around." She leans forward. "What about him?"

"When we work together, it's like..." I struggle to find words that won't sound completely insane. "It's like we've worked together for years. He anticipates what I need before I ask. Knows techniques I've never shown him."

Mira tilts her head, confusion crossing her features.

"Today in trauma, he loaded a needle driver using a technique my mentor taught me in residency. A specific way that nobody else does. Nobody."

"Maybe he's worked with someone who—"

"No." I cut her off. "It's more than that. During a pericardiocentesis, he positioned the ultrasound perfectly without instruction. He handed me instruments before I asked. He knew exactly what I was going to do next."

Mira's expression shifts from confusion to concern. "Liam, are you getting enough sleep?"

"I know how it sounds." I lean forward, voice low. "But there's something happening between us. Some connection I can't explain."

"Connection?" She studies my face. "Like attraction?"

"That too," I admit, feeling heat rise to my face. "But this is different. It's like... déjà vu, but constant. Like we've known each other before."

Mira sits back, arms crossed. "You think you're what? Psychically linked with this paramedic you just met?"

When she puts it that way, it sounds ridiculous. I scrub my hands over my face. "I know it sounds crazy."

"It does," she agrees, then pauses. "But..."

I look up. "But what?"

"The nurses have been talking." She lowers her voice. "About you two. How you work together like you're reading each other's minds. Marina said watching you two in trauma was like watching a dance that had been rehearsed for years."

My heart rate picks up. "So it's not just me noticing this."

"Apparently not." Mira uncrosses her arms, leaning forward. "And you feel it too? This... connection?"

"Every time we're in the same room." I stare at my hands. "It's intense. Distracting. I can't focus when he's around, but when we're working together, it's like we're one person. It doesn't make sense."

"The human brain is a mystery," she says thoughtfully. "Maybe you're picking up on subtle cues from each other. Or maybe..." She trails off.

"Maybe what?"

She shrugs. "Maybe some connections defy explanation. My grandmother back in India would say your souls recognize each other."

I snort. "I don't believe in souls."

"Don't you?" She raises an eyebrow. "You believe in evidence. And from what you're telling me, the evidence suggests something extraordinary is happening."

She's right, and it unsettles me. I've built my life on logic, on things I can prove and explain. This... this is something else entirely.

"So what are you going to do about it?" Mira asks.

"I don't know." I sink back in my chair. "Ignore it? Hope it goes away?"

"Is that what you want? For it to go away?"

The question catches me off guard. Do I want this connection to disappear? The thought creates an unexpected hollow feeling in my chest.

"No," I admit quietly. "But I don't know what to do with it either. It's not just the professional aspect—which is weird enough. There's also..." I hesitate.

"The attraction," Mira finishes for me. "You're drawn to him."

"Yes." The admission feels like relief. "And that terrifies me. After Jason—"

"Jason was a selfish ass who put his career before everything else," Mira interrupts. "Not everyone is Jason."

"I know that. Logically, I know that." I sigh. "But this thing with Noah—it's not just attraction. It's like he can see inside me. And that's..."

"Terrifying," she supplies.

"Exactly."

Mira reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. "So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," I repeat, the truth of it settling heavily between us. "Talk to him, I guess? Try to figure out what this is?"

"That would be the adult approach," she agrees with a small smile.

"Or I could just avoid him for the rest of my career," I suggest half-heartedly.

"Because that's worked so well for you so far?" Mira rolls her eyes. "The entire nursing staff is already gossiping about your supernatural connection. Avoidance isn't an option anymore."

She's right, and we both know it. Whatever is happening between Noah and me, it's not something I can outrun.

"Talk to him," Mira says gently. "Maybe there's a perfectly logical explanation."

"And if there isn't?"

She shrugs. "Then maybe you accept that not everything in life can be explained. And maybe that's okay."

Chapter 4

Liam

I've never been good at relaxing. Even on my days off, my mind tends to cycle through patient cases, administrative concerns, and the endless to-do list waiting for me when I return to the hospital. But after the week I've had, I need to try.

My apartment feels too quiet, too empty for proper decompression. The walls seem to echo with my thoughts, particularly ones about Noah Bennet and whatever inexplicable thing is happening between us. So I grab my laptop, planning to catch up on medical journals at the neighborhood coffee shop instead. At least there, the ambient noise might drown out the questions circling in my head.

The morning air is crisp as I walk the three blocks to Brewed Awakening. It's busy but not packed—perfect. I order my usual (black coffee, no room) and find a corner table partially hidden by a large potted fern. The isolation feels comforting.

I open my laptop and pull up the latest issue of the New England Journal of Medicine. The lead article discusses innovations in trauma care protocols—normally something that would capture my full attention. But today, the words blur together as my mind drifts.

What Mira said yesterday keeps replaying in my head. The nurses talking about Noah and me. Our "supernatural connection." The idea that our souls somehow recognize each other.

"Ridiculous," I mutter, taking a sip of coffee that's still too hot. The burn on my tongue is a welcome distraction.

I force myself to focus on the article, making notes on potential protocol adjustments for our department. After an hour, I've made decent progress, and the rational part of my brain has begun to reassert itself. Whatever I experienced with Noah must have a logical explanation. Perhaps we both trained under similar mentors. Maybe we've read the same research. Or possibly, I've been so sleep-deprived that my mind fabricated connections that weren't really there.

Yes, that's it. Sleep deprivation combined with an attraction I wasn't prepared for. Nothing supernatural about it.

I close the journal article and open my email, feeling more centered than I have in days. The strange connection with Noah Bennet was just my imagination. Next time I see him, things will be normal. Professional. As they should be.

"Dr. Winters?"

The voice hits me before I look up, and I know—I know—who it belongs to. My body reacts instantly: heart rate accelerating, skin warming, that same inexplicable sense of recognition washing over me.

Noah Bennet stands at my table, coffee in hand, looking as surprised as I feel. He's dressed in jeans and a simple gray henley that clings to his shoulders in a way his uniform never does. His dark hair is slightly tousled, as if he's been running his hands through it.

"Noah," I manage, my carefully reconstructed rationality crumbling. "What are you doing here?"

He gestures vaguely toward the counter. "Coffee? It's kind of what they sell here."

His smile reaches his eyes, creating tiny creases at the corners. I notice these details with alarming clarity.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks when I don't respond.

I should say no. I should make an excuse, pack up my things, and leave. Instead, I find myself closing my laptop and nodding toward the empty chair across from me.

"Please."

As Noah sits down, that familiar current passes between us. It's less intense than when we're working together in trauma, but unmistakably there—a subtle awareness of each other that defies explanation.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he says, taking a sip of his coffee—something with cinnamon, I can smell it from here. "Do you live nearby?"

"About three blocks west," I answer, then immediately wonder if I should have shared that. "You?"

"Just moved to an apartment on Maple, about five minutes from here." He glances at my closed laptop. "Working on your day off?"

"Just catching up on some reading." I wrap my hands around my mug, needing something to anchor me. "What about you? No shift today?"

"Off until tomorrow morning." Noah studies me for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "You look like you're feeling better than the last time I saw you. After the cardiac tamponade case."

The memory flashes between us—the intensity of working together, the way he anticipated my every move, our conversation in the staff bathroom afterward.

"I've been thinking about that," I say carefully.

"Me too." His voice drops slightly. "Non-stop, actually."

The honesty in his statement catches me off guard. I've been trying to rationalize what's happening between us, while he's been openly confronting it.

"I tried convincing myself it was all in my head," I admit. "That I was imagining this... connection."

Noah's eyes hold mine. "And now?"

I gesture between us. "Now you're here, in the coffee shop three blocks from my apartment, and I can feel it happening again."

"The connection."

"Yes."

Noah takes a slow breath. "So I'm not crazy."

"If you are, then we both are." I attempt a smile that feels more genuine than expected. "Along with the entire nursing staff, apparently."

"They've noticed too?" His eyebrows raise.

"According to my colleague Mira, we're the talk of the hospital." I shake my head, still finding it hard to believe. "She said watching us work together is like watching a choreographed dance."

Noah leans forward slightly. "That's exactly what it feels like from my end too. Like we've done this a thousand times before."

The validation of my experience sends a wave of both relief and apprehension through me. I'm not imagining things—but that means I have to face whatever this is.

Noah's eyes stay fixed on mine, his expression a mix of wonder and uncertainty. "So what do we do about it?" he asks, voice low enough that only I can hear. "This... whatever it is between us?"

The question hangs in the air. What should we do? I'm a doctor—I deal in diagnoses and treatments, in solutions and protocols. But for this? I have nothing.

"I don't know," I admit, running a hand through my hair. "Maybe we just... let it happen? See where it goes?" The suggestion sounds inadequate even to my own ears. "For all we know, it might just play itself out."

Noah nods slowly, considering. "Like an experiment?"

"A very unscientific one," I add with a small smile. "No control group, terrible methodology."

"And only two subjects." His smile mirrors mine, but his eyes remain serious. "I'm okay with that approach if you are."

I take a deep breath. "I am."

The tension between us shifts, not disappearing but transforming into something more comfortable. Noah takes a sip of his coffee, then sets it down with purpose.

"So, Dr. Winters, if we're going to let this play out, maybe we should actually get to know each other." He leans back in his chair. "Outside of trauma rooms and medical protocols."

"Fair enough." I wrap my fingers around my mug, drawing comfort from its warmth. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," he says simply. "But let's start with why emergency medicine? What drew you to it apart from being able to fix things?"

It's a standard question, one I've answered countless times in interviews and at conferences. I have a polished response about the challenge and variety, about making immediate differences in critical moments. But looking at Noah, I find myself wanting to give him the real answer.

"My grandfather died of a heart attack when I was twelve," I say. "We were at his lake house. No neighbors for miles. By the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late." I pause, surprised by how fresh the memory still feels. "I remember standing there, watching these paramedics work on him, knowing exactly what they were doing but not why it wasn't working. I wanted to understand."

Noah nods, his expression reflecting a deep understanding that goes beyond sympathy. "That explains a lot about how you work. The intensity, the focus. I'm sorry about your grandfather."

"I'm sorry about your brother."

We sit in shared understanding for a moment. Then Noah asks, "You're not from here originally, right? Your accent has a slight Quebecois inflection sometimes."

I raise my eyebrows. "You picked up on that? Most people don't notice."

"I notice everything about you," he says, then looks slightly embarrassed by his own admission. "Sorry, that sounded—"

"No, it's okay." I find myself smiling. "You're right. I'm from Ottawa originally, the Gatineau side."

"What brought you here?"

The question is innocent enough, but it touches on everything I've been avoiding talking about. I should deflect, give the simplified version I tell everyone else—better opportunity, change of scenery. Instead, I hear myself saying:

"I needed to get away from Ottawa. From the hospital there. From Jason."

Noah doesn't push, just waits for me to continue, his presence somehow making it easier to keep talking.

"Jason was another doctor at the hospital where I worked. Cardiothoracic surgeon. Brilliant, charismatic." I pause, the memories flooding back. "We were together for three years. I thought we were building something real."

I take a sip of my now-lukewarm coffee, buying time.

"Turns out, he was building something with one of his residents too. And possibly a nurse from ICU." The bitterness in my voice surprises me. I thought I was past this. "When I confronted him, he acted like I was overreacting. Like exclusivity was something we'd never discussed, when we absolutely had."

Noah's expression darkens. "What an asshole."

The simple validation in those three words loosens something in my chest.

"The worst part wasn't even the cheating. It was realizing how much of myself I'd given up for him." The words tumble out now, things I haven't told anyone, not even Mira. "I changed my specialty focus because it aligned better with his schedule. Turned down a research opportunity because he thought it would take too much time away from us. Started dressing differently because he made comments about my 'academic look.'"

I shake my head, embarrassed by my own naivety. "After we broke up, I looked around and didn't recognize my life anymore. So I left. New hospital, new city, new start."

"And threw yourself into work instead," Noah says, not a question but an observation.

"Completely. It was safer that way." I let out a humorless laugh. "No relationship, no friends outside the hospital, just work. I convinced myself it was enough."

"And was it?"

I meet his gaze, struck by how easy it is to be honest with him. "No. But it was... manageable."

Noah nods, understanding in his eyes. "Until now?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us is ready to fully address.

"Until now," I agree quietly.

* * *

Noah

I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. The training room fills with paramedics and EMTs chatting about calls and complaining about paperwork, but I barely register their conversations. My eyes keep drifting to the door.

"Someone's jumpy today," Dani slides into the seat next to me, coffee in hand. "You're not usually this anxious about continuing education credits."

"Just caffeinated," I lie, tapping my empty travel mug.

"Right." She doesn't believe me for a second. "Nothing to do with a certain doctor who's teaching this session?"

Heat creeps up my neck. "It's been a week since coffee. We've texted but—"

The door opens and Liam walks in, dressed in dark slacks and a light blue button-down that makes his eyes look impossibly clear. My sentence dies mid-thought.

"But you haven't seen him," Dani finishes for me, smirking. "Got it."

Liam sets his materials on the table at the front of the room. He looks up, scanning the faces until his eyes lock with mine. A small, private smile touches his lips before he shifts into professional mode.

"Good morning, everyone. Thanks for coming to today's session on advanced airway management techniques." His voice carries confidence, but I catch the slight adjustment of his collar—a nervous tell I somehow recognize despite our limited time together.

The first thirty minutes pass in a blur of slides and discussion. I contribute when appropriate, but mostly I watch him. The way his hands move when he explains complex procedures. How he listens intently to questions, head slightly tilted. The occasional glance my way that lasts a beat longer than necessary.

"Now we'll move on to the practical portion," Liam announces. "I need a volunteer to demonstrate the new bougie-assisted cricothyrotomy technique we're implementing."

Several hands go up. Mine isn't one of them—I'm too busy trying to look professional while my heart pounds against my ribs.

"Paramedic Bennet," Liam says, his eyes finding mine. "You've had experience with difficult airways, correct?"

"Yes, Doctor." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"Perfect. Would you mind helping with the demonstration?"

I rise from my chair, aware of Dani's knowing look as I pass. Walking to the front of the room feels like crossing a football field.

"The patient presents with severe facial trauma and upper airway obstruction," Liam explains to the room as I position myself by the training mannequin. "Standard intubation attempts have failed."

He stands close enough that I catch his scent—antiseptic soap and something warmer underneath, something distinctly him. Our fingers brush as he hands me a pair of gloves.

"You'll assist while I demonstrate," he says, his voice pitched for the room but his eyes communicating something else entirely.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"First, identify the cricothyroid membrane," Liam explains, turning toward me. "May I?"

I nod again. His fingers touch my neck, gentle but precise. The contact sends electricity through my body.

"You'll palpate here," he continues, his fingertips pressing lightly against my throat. His professional demeanor doesn't falter, but his pulse—visible at his wrist—quickens. "Feel for the depression between the thyroid cartilage and cricoid ring."