4.

Roman

The relentless beeping of monitors is a lullaby I’ve grown accustomed to, but tonight it’s drowned out by the shrill ring of the red phone—the line from the fire department direct to us. My head snaps up as Shelly Sable, the nurse in charge, answers with that all-too-familiar brace in her voice. “Mercy Emergency… Five ambulances?” she repeats, loud enough for the entire ED to hear.

Her eyes catch mine, and without another word, I’m on my feet.

“Apartment fire,” she announces as she hangs up the phone. “Several families involved. Some critical.”

Adrenaline kicks in, and I snatch a paper gown from the supply cart and tug it over my scrubs. Gloves follow, snapping against my wrists as I push through the double doors to the ambulance bay. I’ve seen this chaos before, yet somehow every time it’s like the first—sharp and jarring.

The night air bites at my exposed skin, but I barely feel the cold as the first ambulance backs in, lights painting the darkness in urgent reds and whites. The doors burst open, and the paramedics jump out, maneuvering a stretcher with a woman. Dr. Kent Johns and his team take her, and then a second stretcher with a small, shivering form strapped to it emerges.

“Carrie,” she coughs out when I ask her name, her voice barely a whisper.

“Hey there, Carrie,” I say, gently as I can. “I’m Dr. Quinlan. We’re going to take good care of you.”

Her breaths are shallow, each one a struggle that etches pain across her soot-stained face. I lean in, listening to her lungs, and hear the telltale wheeze of smoke inhalation—and probably severe damage. Gray mucus sputters from her lips, and I know we don’t have a second to waste.

“Let’s get a blood gas test, stat,” I call to my nurse, Fiona Reily, as we follow the gurney inside. “Check her oxygen, carbon dioxide, and carboxyhemoglobin levels.”

“Right away, Dr. Quinlan.” Fiona is already on it, efficient and focused.

I wish I could tell Carrie it’s going to be okay, that she’s safe now, but lies have no place in an ED. Instead, I give her what reassurance I can through action, fitting an oxygen mask over her face.

“More oxygen for you, Carrie. It’ll help with your breathing,” I explain, watching her chest rise and fall with a little more ease.

As I work, a part of me—the part that’s not in doctor mode—thinks about how fragile life is. Here’s this little girl, caught in a disaster, looking to me to make it better. And all I’ve got are my hands, my knowledge, and a team that moves like a well-oiled machine.

“Keep strong, Carrie,” I murmur. “We’ve got you.”

Fiona is back with the results faster than I expect, concern knitting her brow as she hands me the slip of paper. I scan the numbers, trying not to let my worry show. Elevated carbon monoxide. Damn.

“Prep her for hyperbaric oxygen therapy,” I decide, handing back the paper. “And keep monitoring her closely.”

“Understood.”

It’s a never-ending dance, saving lives. One foot after the other, one breath at a time. And as I watch Carrie wheeled away, I steel myself for the next round. Because the night is far from over, and I’m the one they’re counting on.

The ambulance bay doors swing open, and the harsh light of the emergency room spills out into the darkness. Two small forms, wrapped in blankets, are wheeled toward me. I meet them halfway, already reaching for the boy’s exposed arm, his skin a tapestry of red and angry burns.

“Hey, buddy, I’m Dr. Quinlan,” I tell him, my voice even and calm despite the adrenaline that courses through me. The little boy gazes up with tear-brimmed eyes, clutching his sister’s hand.

“Mommy went back for Thomas,” the girl whispers between sobs. “Our kitty.”

“Your mommy is very brave,” I assure them as I assess their wounds, “and she’s getting the best care possible right now.”

“Really?” The boy sniffles, hope flickering in his gaze.

“Really,” I confirm. “Now, let’s get you two fixed up. What are your names?”

“Brandon.” The boy manages a shaky breath. “And this is Sara.”

“Nice to meet you, Brandon and Sara. You’re both very brave too.” I begin cleaning Brandon’s burns, the smell of antiseptic filling the air. Sara watches, following my every move, as if understanding the importance of each gentle dab. Once cleaned, I apply a cooling ointment to his arm, covering it with a dressing that will help the skin heal. Their initial tension eases under my care, a testament to the trust they’ve placed in my hands.

“Will Mommy be okay?” Sara asks.

“Let me check on her for you,” I say, stepping out of the curtained room.

I find Shelly, who looks up from her station as I approach, her face somber. “She’s in surgery,” she says.

My chest tightens, but I nod, knowing I need to keep it together—for them.

Back at the bedside, I kneel down to their level. “Your mom is in surgery,” I explain, choosing my words carefully. “That means the doctors are helping her right now. It’s going to take some time, but I promise we’ll take good care of her.”

“Thank you, Dr. Quinlan,” Sara murmurs, gripping her brother’s hand.

“Of course,” I reply, offering them a smile. “Now, you two rest. We’ll look after everything.” I hand them a tablet and put on a children’s show that hopefully will take their mind off being in the emergency department. If we’re lucky, they’ll get some sleep.

As they settle, the rest of the fire patients seem to be managed, so I move on to my next patient, my mind still partly with the siblings, hoping their mother pulls through. Fluorescent lights flicker above, casting a ghostly pallor over the next boy’s face as he clutches his arm, which is bent at an odd angle. His grandmother, a tempest of fury and fear, punctuates the air with her sharp accusations. “I told her about that man! I knew he’d hurt Jamie!”

“Ma’am, I assure you we’re going to take good care of him,” I say as evenly as I can, though my gut clenches at the thought of what might have happened to cause such an injury.

“Can you wiggle your fingers for me, Jamie?” The boy seems to shrink smaller beneath the oversized hospital gown. He complies, a flicker of pain crossing his features.

“Good. We’re going to get some pictures of your arm, okay? Just to see what’s going on in there.” I guide them toward radiology, trying to keep the concern from seeping into my voice.

In another bay, I find a patient named Ling, according to her chart. She’s currently a tiny figure shivering despite the warm blankets piled on top of her. I supervise as a nurse assists her into a bath designed to slowly raise her body temperature. Steam curls around her small form, and I watch the goose bumps recede as warmth seeps into her skin.

“Hi, Ling,” I greet her softly, not wanting to startle her. She looks up at me with big, frightened eyes.

“Are you Dr. Quinlan?” she whispers, her voice fragile, edged with tears.

“Yes, I am. Let’s get you warmed up, okay?” I check her vitals and make sure the temperature is just right. As she relaxes, I inspect her feet, noting a discolored toe—the early signs of frostbite.

“Does it hurt anywhere, Ling?” I ask, gently examining her.

“Only my toe,” she replies, pointing to the smallest one, now a worrying shade of white.

“Okay, we’re going to take good care of it,” I assure her. Inside, I’m calculating the best treatment plan, aware that every second counts with frostbite.

Ling nods, her eyes fixed on me. I offer a comforting smile, but internally I’m sending up a silent plea that her toe can be saved.

“Stay brave for me, Ling.” I touch her shoulder lightly before moving away to organize her treatment. “You’re doing great.”

As I leave her side, I’m already running through the list of other patients in my mind, the weight of responsibility heavy on my shoulders. But there’s no time to dwell on it.

I return to Jamie, the little boy with the broken arm. “X-rays will show us everything we need to know,” I explain. When the images come through, a spiral fracture stares back at me from my computer screen—a telltale sign of twisting force.

“Jamie, you’re brave to let us take those pictures,” coos Nurse Mira Patel as she hands him a sticker. She leans in closer, her voice a tender hush. “Is there anything you want to tell us about how this happened?”

His eyes dart to his grandmother before they settle to the ground; his whole body tenses. “No,” he whispers, but it’s enough. That’s enough for me to make the call I dread, yet know is necessary.

Stepping away, I pick up a phone. “Child Protection Services, please.” The words are heavy, tasting bitter as I report the situation while watching Jamie across the room, hoping we’re not too late.

“Man, what a shift…” Kent Johns chuckles as we slide into the booth at the twenty-four-hour diner, the early-morning crowd sparse.

I let out a low whistle, the adrenaline finally ebbing away after my shift, leaving exhaustion in its wake. “Tell me about it,” I reply, glancing at the menu before deciding on autopilot—pancakes and coffee, the usual after a night like this. “We had a full house tonight.”

“I guess that’s business as usual.” Kent flags down the server, ordering his breakfast burrito with extra hot sauce. My stomach churns at the thought. “Any tough cases?” he asks as the server departs.

“Too many,” I confess, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “There’s one little guy with a spiral fracture. Grandmother thinks it’s non-accidental. Had to call CPS.” My worry lingers, a stubborn shadow that refuses to be dispelled.

“Damn, that’s rough.” Kent’s expression softens, the humor fading. “You did the right thing, Roman.”

“Knowing it’s right doesn’t make it easier,” I admit, gaze dropping to my coffee cup as I wrap my hands around the warmth. “But if it keeps him safe…”

“Exactly.” Kent gives a firm nod.

“Hey,” he says after a beat, the jovial British lilt returning to his voice. “At least we survived, right? Here’s to another night in the trenches.” He raises his coffee mug in salute.

“Survived and ready for the next battle,” I agree, clinking my cup against his. “As always.”

The silence between us stretches for a moment, filled only by the low murmur of early risers scattered throughout the diner. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a clinical glow that reminds me too much of the hospital.

“Hey, have you heard about the King George House fundraiser?” Kent breaks the lull.

I nod, sipping my coffee. “Yeah, I’ve heard bits and pieces.”

“Word is Cordelia met with Ava Winters. Ava’s taking over the whole shebang.” He watches me closely, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Ava —just the mention of her name stirs a familiar ache in my chest. Kent went to medical school with Ava and me, so he knows our history.

“Is that so?” My voice remains level, betraying none of the tumult within me. Our history is a tapestry of tender moments and sharp regrets, woven tightly enough to never truly unravel.

“Yup. And they’re looking for volunteers to co-chair. High-profile stuff.” Kent leans back, arms crossed. “You should join in. It’s right up your alley, and it would be good exposure, especially working alongside my dad.”

Dr. Charles Johns, Kent’s dad, is the chief medical officer of the hospital, and if you get on his good side, you can ride a wave straight to the top.

“Working with your dad, eh?” It’s tempting—the respect, the visibility. But there’s more at stake here. Working with Ava, reconnecting on something that’s not steeped in our past… Maybe it’s a chance to mend bridges—or perhaps burn them for good.

“Come on, Roman. You know you want to,” Kent urges, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I chew the inside of my cheek, weighing the pros and cons. A chance to collaborate with Ava is dangerous territory, yet the thought sends an undeniable thrill through me. We were serious once, dangerously close to something permanent. Could a shared cause thaw the frost between us? Could we be friends, or is the hope for something more still smoldering beneath the ashes?

“Maybe I could help out,” I finally say. “It wouldn’t hurt to offer some support.” The words feel like a concession, but also a dare to myself.

“Uh-huh. Support .” Kent chuckles, clearly unconvinced by my attempt at detachment.

“Friends, Kent,” I insist. “Just friends.” But even as I say it, there’s a part of me—a reckless, hopeful part—that whispers, Maybe more than friends .

“Sure, buddy,” Kent replies. “But remember, the heart’s got its own ideas. Yours always did have a mind of its own.”

I exhale slowly, staring into the murky depths of my coffee, seeing reflections of a past I’ve tried to compartmentalize. Working with Ava on the fundraiser, being in close quarters—it’s a risk. Yet, life in the ED has taught me that sometimes, the greatest risks yield the most vital rewards.

A server refills our coffee cups, and I rub my hands together—an anchor in the swirl of impending decisions.

“Listen,” Kent says, reaching for his phone, “let’s not leave this hanging.”

I watch him navigate his contacts, the motion smooth and decisive. He puts the phone to his ear, and I take a sip of coffee.

“Hey, Dad,” Kent says in greeting. “Good news. I’ve found someone to co-chair the King George House fundraiser with Dr. Winters. Roman Quinlan’s stepping in.”

His gaze flicks to me, an eyebrow raised in challenge or encouragement—I can’t tell which.

“Really?” I can hear Charles Johns’s voice, even from across the table, a blend of surprise and approval. “That’s excellent.”

I nod, though he can’t see it, a silent affirmation to both Kent and myself. This is happening. I’m really doing thi s. The prospect sends an electric current down my spine.

“Tell him we’ll need him at the meeting next Monday,” Dr. Johns continues, his voice a familiar baritone that has guided me through countless challenges.

“Got it, Dad. Next Monday,” Kent confirms. He glances at me again, his eyes crinkling. “Oh, and Roman’s right here if you want to say something to him… Sure.”

Kent hands me the phone, and I brace myself.

“Roman, this is great news,” Dr. Johns’s voice is warm but carries an undercurrent of professional reserve. “You’re making a good choice.”

“Thanks, Dr. Johns. I’m looking forward to it.” Am I, though? Or am I just looking forward to being near Ava again?

“Okay, then,” Kent says, holding a hand out for his phone. “We’re all set.”

“See you Monday,” Dr. Johns concludes before ending the call.

Kent chuckles as I hand him his device. “Well, look at you, Mr. Co-Chair. Time to roll up your sleeves, Romeo.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the tabletop. Mr. Co-Chair . The title feels both foreign and fitting, like a suit tailored long ago that now requires altering. “Romeo, huh?” I try for levity, but it falls flat.

“Hey, you’re the one who wants to work with his ex,” Kent teases, but his eyes soften. “Just be careful, man.”

“Always am,” I lie, because when it comes to Ava, careful is a term I seem to forget how to practice.

“Right,” Kent says, still sounding unconvinced. Just then the server returns with our food. “Pass the salt?”

I slide the shaker across to him, my mind already spinning. Could this push us into a new orbit, or will it send us spiraling away, farther apart than before? “Let’s just focus on the fundraiser,” I tell Kent. But deep down, I know it’s not just about the fundraiser. It’s about second chances, and whether they’re ever really possible.