I hadn’t seen Ella or the girls since that night.
Since the kiss.
The memory of her mouth, soft and hungry against mine, haunted me. Every curve of her body was etched into my head, a temptation I couldn’t shake. This morning, when I woke up hard as a rock, the only thing on my mind was her.
Her lips. Her body under mine. The way she gasped my name like she wanted more.
I took care of it with my fist, fast and rough, biting back her name. Not my proudest moment, but it got the job done.
When I got to the hospital, I told myself that my release would help me focus. That maybe I could finally clear the fog from my head.
“Dr. Mortoli, incoming!” one of the triage nurses shouted. “Male, mid-forties, GSW to the abdomen, BP dropping. ETA two minutes.”
In a practiced motion, I grabbed gloves, a gown, and protective eyewear, because blood can shoot out from anywhere with a gunshot wound. My adrenaline surged. This was the part of the job that used to calm me—a high-stakes puzzle with a life on the line.
Back when I was a young doctor with a very young family, I both hated and loved coming to work. Sure, I felt needed at home, but it was nothing like the emergency department. When Leo accidentally spilled juice, there was no urge to rush and clean it or to get upset over it. I never reacted the way Jodie thought I should, and it took a long time for her to understand why.
My perspective was different from hers. Rushing was saved for burn victims, not juice. Being upset over the juice seemed silly compared to tending a kid with a dog bite. For a long time, she took it personally, feeling like she was the only parent in the house.
Looking back on it now, in some ways, she was.
The doors slammed open as EMTs rushed in, pushing a gurney. “Forty-three-year-old male, single gunshot wound to the lower left quadrant,” one of them barked. “BP’s eighty over fifty, pulse one-forty, in and out of consciousness!”
The patient’s skin was waxy, eyes unfocused, pain etched into every line of his face. The problem was, he wasn’t screaming. Not good. I pushed everything else from my mind. Focus.
“Bay four,” I ordered, voice clipped.
We wheeled the gurney past two other trauma bays that were already full—someone who had been in a bar fight in one, a multi-vehicle collision victim in another. Lights blinked overhead, fluorescent and harsh, reflecting the tension thrumming through every hallway.
I stepped up to the head of the gurney. “Sir, can you hear me?”
A gurgled moan was the only response. His eyes rolled back. Great.
“The bullet’s probably lodged near the bowel,” I muttered. “We need an immediate scan, or—”
“Scan will take too long,” a voice cut in.
I glanced to my right and saw the last person I wanted to see. Dr. Seth Bowan. He was already snapping on gloves, jaw set in that smug determination I’d come to hate. “We open him up here,” Seth insisted. “He’s crashing.”
I gritted my teeth. “We need imaging, Bowan. We’re not going in blind.”
A nurse wiped sweat from the patient’s brow, eyes darting between us. The tension was thick enough to choke on. Time is of the essence.
Seth turned on me, fire in his eyes. “He’s going to bleed out if we waste precious minutes. I’m calling it.”
“You’re not in charge here,” I snapped back, but my protest rang hollow. The patient’s vitals were plunging dangerously low, monitors blaring shrill warnings. There was no time for bullshit.
Before I could argue further, Seth grabbed a scalpel from the tray. “Prep for an emergency laparotomy,” he barked to the nurse. Then he looked at me, challenge gleaming in his gaze.
My hands curled into fists. Dammit. If we stood here debating, the patient would die. “Fine,” I ground out. “But we do this my way.”
“No,” Seth growled, “we do it the right way. Stand aside.”
He moved in, and I tried to hold back the urge to shove him aside. This was an ED, not an OR, meaning we lacked the usual setup and the space to move. We had some surgical tools and a chance to patch up a catastrophic bleed, but it was hardly ideal. We needed speed, coordination, a steady hand, and solid leadership.
The patient let out a wet groan that turned to a choke. I positioned the suction, ignoring the storm of anger in my chest. I barked, “Nurse, get me more suction. He’s aspirating.”
Fluids gushed onto the sterile drapes, and I felt my stomach roil. That almost never happened anymore. If Seth screwed up…
He made the incision with practiced efficiency, but I could see the tension in his posture. Blood immediately welled up, thick and dark.
“Clamp!” he shouted, and a nurse passed it to him. Seth’s hands darted into the open wound, searching for the bleeding vessel. “I see it.”
I leaned in, adrenaline thrumming, scanning for an opening to step in. “Careful—”
“I know,” Seth hissed.
Then everything happened in a flash. He shifted, and a fresh torrent of blood spurted, slicking his gloves and staining the drapes a deep crimson. Monitors beeped erratically.
“Clamp that artery!” I yelled, panic spiking. “He’s crashing!”
Seth fumbled for a split second—just a blink, but enough time for my heart to lurch in my chest. The monitors screeched warnings, the nurse rattling off the patient’s plummeting stats. Seventy over forty. Pulse weakening.
Finally, Seth pinned the bleeder with the clamp. The flow of blood slowed, the patient’s vitals stabilizing just a touch. The entire team sagged in relief, but my blood boiled.
“That was reckless,” I bit out, voice low so only Seth could hear.
He glared up at me over his mask, sweat dripping down his temple. “I saved his life.”
“The imaging would have shown a clearer path,” I snapped, controlling my volume with an iron will. “He almost bled out because you rushed it.”
“You want to blame someone, blame yourself for hesitating,” Seth spat back, his knuckles white around the clamp.
I opened my mouth to retort, but a nurse cleared her throat, eyes flicking nervously between us. The patient was still in danger if we didn’t finish up.
Seth turned back to the wound, finishing the immediate patch job. The commotion settled into a tense hush as the rest of the team worked to close. My stomach churned at the coppery smell of blood.
As soon as the patient was stable enough for transport, we ran him to the OR, where a full surgical team would take over. Seth peeled off his gloves, meeting my gaze with a glare that screamed don’t you dare.
I dropped my voice, though anger pulsed behind every syllable. “That is not going unreported.”
Seth tore off his mask, his lip curling. “Do whatever you want, Dominic. The fact remains—I saved his life, and you stood there, stalling.”
Seth brushed past me, leaving nothing but tension in his wake. My pulse hammered, rage simmering under my skin. He’d regret this.
Half an hour later, I was still pacing my office, adrenaline refusing to fade. Images flashed—blood, the crash cart, Seth’s smug grin.
That reckless bastard.
I rubbed my eyes, bone-tired. I’d had my fair share of clashes over the years, but fewer now that I outranked half the staff. Still, every argument pissed me off.
This wasn’t about ego. It was about survival. Seth had gambled with a patient’s life, and I wanted to put my fist through a wall.
But then I thought of my daughters. Would they be proud of a dad who lost it?
I unclenched my fists and let the rage burn out.
For now.
Why am I even doing this anymore?
The question cut deep. I used to know exactly why—the thrill of saving lives, the pursuit of a top role in administration.
But everything had changed since I learned about the twins. The hospital no longer felt like my whole world. Ella and the girls were out there, and I was stuck in these fluorescent corridors, playing a power game with a man I despised.
My phone buzzed with a text from the hospital admin, something about a scheduling conflict. I ignored it. I couldn’t deal with more politics right now. I needed an anchor.
And that anchor was Ella.
I didn’t want her to feel like the only parent at home. I didn’t want her to feel alone in this. And right now, I didn’t want to feel alone, either.
I glanced at the clock. Two hours left. Screw it. I was done. I never left mid-shift, but today? Today I couldn’t breathe.
I grabbed my coat, stuffed my phone in my pocket, and stormed out. No guilt. No second-guessing. Just raw fury. Staff stared but kept their mouths shut, probably sensing I’d snap.
In the Uber, traffic crawled, and my mind replayed it all—the blood, the panic, Seth’s smug face. We’d been forced to co-lead tonight, a pairing nobody wanted. Maybe admin had set us up to see who was best under pressure. That seemed like the sort of mindfuck they’d use to dig into who was the better man for the job.
It wasn’t Seth Bowan.
That man is going to cost someone their life someday. And I’ll make sure the board knows it. I’ll testify, if it comes down to it.
But even that vow felt hollow, overshadowed by the need gnawing at my gut. The hospital mattered less and less with every passing block. I pictured Ella’s apartment, the small living room filled with baby gear, the twins’ bassinets in their pastel bedroom. I needed to see them—needed it like I needed air.
I didn’t call or text. Couldn’t risk hearing “not now” or “I’m too tired.” Logic told me to wait. Emotion dragged me there anyway.
Traffic crawled. I nearly tore the door off the cab when we stopped. My pulse was still jacked as I hit the stairs, taking them two at a time.
When I reached her door, my chest tightened. That worn welcome mat, chipped paint—it all screamed stop. But I was already knocking.
I knocked. Then I knocked again, barely waiting two seconds between.
For a beat, there was silence. Fear slithered up my spine—maybe she wasn’t home, or maybe she was ignoring me.
Then I heard the soft shuffle on the other side.
The door cracked open, revealing Ella’s face. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, eyes reflecting a tiredness I recognized in myself, but a flicker of surprise danced there too.
She took one look at me—my disheveled state, my clenched jaw—and her eyes went round. “Dom?”
I opened my mouth to explain, to apologize for barging in. But the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I just let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, the anger and stress of the day flooding out in that single exhale.
And then, the door was wide open, inviting me into the warmth of her apartment beyond. A sanctuary.
