Chapter Text
I always knew I was meant to be a surgeon. From the moment I could understand what the word meant, I felt the pull—life-saving, precise, and endless. But when you're chasing perfection, it's hard to make room for anything else. Especially in a job like this.
I live in Brooklyn, New York, where time has a way of slipping away. Every day is a blur of hours and minutes that are carefully scheduled down to the last second. No room for mistakes. No room for distractions.
I graduated college early, skipped the third grade, and by the time I was 28, I was in my fifth year of surgical residency. I was driven. I was focused. And I knew exactly what I wanted: a big house, a white picket fence, kids, and a husband who saw me as more than just a scalpel-wielding surgeon. But that was a dream from the past, one I never talked about anymore.
I glanced at my assignments for the week. "Wait. Why am I on Pitt?" I stared at the schedule in disbelief.
The chief resident, Dr. Mitchell, peered over at me with a slightly apologetic look. "Callie can't take Pitt this week. She's about to pop, and if the baby comes while she's down there, I can't cover it."
I sighed, already feeling the weight of the change. "Fine. I'll take it."
I wasn't thrilled about it, but I didn't have the luxury of saying no. The Pit—our hospital's ER's most intense trauma bay—was a mess. I wanted neurosurgery, not this chaotic battlefield of the unknown.
———
The hours dragged on as the trauma bay filled with the usual chaos. The sound of beeping monitors, the sharp calls from nurses, and the quiet hustle of people moving with purpose. Most of my day had been filled with routine tasks—less critical, but still important. But I didn't want routine. I needed a challenge.
"Sinclare, we've got an incoming trauma. Needs an immediate neuro consult. Can you handle it, or should I page Dr. And-?"
I didn't wait for the nurse to finish her sentence. "I've got it!" The words were out before I realized it, adrenaline spiking.
I wasn't new here. I knew the ER was unpredictable. But today, it had been dead slow. Too slow. I needed to feel the pulse of trauma, the kind of rush that made everything else disappear.
I pulled my hair up into a quick ponytail and strode toward the ambulance bay, my heart already pounding.
"Alright, stand back," I called out to my interns as the ambulance doors swung open. The EMTs wheeled in a man who looked like he'd been through hell. His face was battered, his chest barely rising.
The EMT gave me the vitals. "Unresponsive. Left pupil blown. Multiple contusions."
Kadence, one of the EMTs I worked with regularly, leaned in close and whispered, "He's a lost cause."
I shot her a look, then turned back to the patient. "No one's a lost cause until the time of death is called." I didn't need sympathy from anyone, least of all from her. "Get back out there."
I turned to the patient, already wheeling him toward a trauma bay. "Alright, Mr. DeLuca. You're in good hands."
———
The radiologist's face was grim as he read over the scans. His eyes flicked to me, and I could tell he wasn't seeing anything good. I felt my stomach tighten, but I pushed it aside. This was what I did.
"Neuro," I paged, hoping for a quick response. It was unusual for them to take this long, but I was too invested to let it go.
Minutes dragged by. I hadn't heard anything from neurosurgery, and that was a red flag. I had a neuro focus—this was supposed to be my territory. But this time, they were leaving me out in the cold.
I walked into the room and immediately scanned the vitals again. Something about this didn't sit right with me. Just then, I heard a voice.
"Is he gonna be okay?"
I turned. A man was sitting in the corner of the room, his posture relaxed, but there was an air of authority about him. His eyes were dark and unblinking, a quiet intensity radiating from him. There was no panic, no urgency in his gaze. Only... control.
"Didn't the attending surgeon speak with you?" I asked, my voice more clipped than I intended.
He nodded, his face unreadable. "Yeah. But I'm not fluent in medical terminology."
I laughed softly, my nerves easing slightly. "Okay, let me break it down for you. Mr. DeLuca has minimal brain activity. And with his extensive injuries..." I took a deep breath, then looked up at him. "Listen, I know this is hard to hear, but you should start preparing yourself to say goodbye."
He didn't flinch. He didn't show any emotion. He just nodded slowly, his lips tight.
"Thank you," he said, his voice low, but not defeated.
I could feel my chest tighten. I tried to soften the blow. "How do you know him?"
His eyes flickered for a moment before he mumbled, "He's my dad."
The words hit me harder than I expected. "I'm so sorry," I said quietly, realizing I'd been too blunt. "We're doing everything we can. Dr. Anderson is the resident on your case. Dr. Richard's, the chief of surgery, is very thorough. Your father is in good hands."
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You're not Dr. Anderson or Dr. Richard's?"
I knew I'd overstepped. "No. I'm Dr. Sinclare I was assigned to his case initially when he was a trauma patient, but now that he's been admitted for neurosurgery, I'm no longer involved." I hesitated. "I was just curious about his treatment plan."
He raised an eyebrow. "And is it good?"
I looked down at the chart again, unsure of how to proceed. I flashed a quick glance at Mr. DeLuca's eyes. Both pupils were blown. No. That wasn't right. They should've performed burr holes to relieve the pressure by now.
I pulled out my pager and immediately sent a message to Dr. Richards, but Mr. DeLuca's son was already watching me, his expression tense.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on, or should I wait for your pager to buzz?"
———
Dr. Richards entered the room a few moments later, his expression darkening when he saw me. "Sinclare, this isn't your case anymore."
I didn't hesitate. "Okay, but both of his pupils are blown, and nobody's done burr holes. We need to act."
He rolled his eyes. "I'm sure Dr. Anderson is planning to—"
"Since when do we wait to do burr holes?" My frustration was rising.
He sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. Page her again. We'll do it now."
But it wasn't over. Mr. DeLuca's son stood, his tone firm. "If this doctor overlooked something like this, I don't want her on my father's case."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The head of surgery was being challenged. By this man, this stranger, who was probably used to getting everything he wanted.
Dr. Richards turned to him, his eyes narrowing. "What is it you want?"
The response was clear, and surprising. "Sinclare stays on the case."
I blinked, stunned. My eyes saying You can't be serious.
"Fine," Dr. Richards muttered, crossing his arms. "Sinclare, scrub in with me."
I stood there for a moment, my heart thundering. This was my moment, but it wasn't just about saving a life anymore. It was about control. And I was about to walk right into his world.
———
The operating room was eerily quiet, the only sound the rhythm of my breath and the occasional command. My hands moved with practiced precision, though part of me couldn't shake a strange feeling.
———
After the surgery, I finished up my rounds and headed back to the nursing station. Charts in hand, I mentally prepared for the shift ahead—one last check on the remaining patients, then home.
"Have a good night, Brittney," I called as I passed the nurse at the desk. She gave me a tired but warm smile.
"You too, honey," she replied.
I turned toward the exit, ready to leave the hospital for the night. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly as I walked toward the door, but as I rounded the corner, I nearly collided with someone. My breath caught in my throat.
Standing there, impossibly tall, was mr. DeLucas son I hadn't seen him since that quiet, intense conversation earlier. But now, his presence felt even more overwhelming, as though the air around us had shifted.
I blinked, startled. "Sorry," I muttered, instinctively stepping back.
He didn't move, his body still blocking the doorway. His gaze was steady on me, like he was reading me in a way I couldn't quite understand. The room seemed to narrow, the noise of the hospital fading into the background. I could feel my pulse quicken in my neck.
"Did you need something?" I asked, trying to push past the disorienting pull of his presence.
A slow, knowing smile curled at his lips. "I just wanted to thank you, for taking care of my father. I'm Matteo." His voice was smooth, with an edge of something unspoken underneath, like every word was weighted.
I managed a tight smile, but it didn't quite reach my eyes. "No need to apologize. It's my job. " I said, voice steady, but I could feel my pulse hitch in my throat.
He nodded, his eyes dark and unreadable, but something about them made me feel exposed. "That it is. Sorry for involving myself earlier, I hope you don't face repercussions. But you were more competent than the other resident. Just wanted to make sure you knew that... Doctor sinclare?"
I laughed softly, but it was a nervous sound, like I wasn't sure where this conversation was going. "My name is Laura. And Anderson is good. Just distracted lately. A little boy-crazy."
His lips twitched with a smirk, and I couldn't quite decide if it was amusement or something else. "And you?" he asked, his gaze flicking over me like he was noting every detail. "You seem... focused."
I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the flicker of heat in my chest. Was he flirting with me? Or just testing the waters? "It's hard to be distracted by men when no man's caught my attention," I replied, meeting his gaze, hoping I sounded casual, unaffected.
His expression didn't shift, but I could feel the weight of his scrutiny. He hummed under his breath, as if filing away my words for later. "You clocking out doc?" he asked, the simple question holding so much more than it seemed.
"Yeah, looks like it."
He stepped forward just slightly, closing the space between us. It was a subtle move, but it made the air feel thicker. He didn't back off, even as I shifted on my feet. " it's dark. I'll walk you out."
I didn't protest, simply began walking.
"Do you work tomorrow?" he asked, his voice low.
I nodded. "Night shift."
He smiled then, a small, almost dangerous curve of his lips. "Hopefully, I'll see you then."
I chuckled, trying to keep it light. "Trust me, by the time your father is discharged you'll be tired of my face."
His smile deepened. The dimples appeared on his cheeks, but there was something darker behind it—something that made my stomach flutter and my pulse skip. "I could never get tired of your face."
The words hit me harder than I expected. I could feel a blush creeping up my face, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. We stepped into the cold night and I pulled my keys out of my pocket. As we reached my car. I cleared my throat, though I didn't want to leave. "I should get going," I said, forcing my voice to steady. "I've got a long day tomorrow."
His gaze didn't leave mine as he opened my door. I turned to get in the car and it felt like he was watching me every step of the way. His presence lingered, like an imprint on my skin. "Drive safe Laura." I nodded and as I took a final look at him I noticed his hidden softness behind his eyes "I'm confident your father can make a great recovery." He gave me a smile and a slight nod " good night doc." As he walked off
I breathed in deeply, trying to shake off the feeling that had settled in my chest, the tension pulling tighter with every thought of him. But no matter how hard I tried to distract myself, the image of his dark eyes and that subtle smile stayed in my mind, circling like a predator.
Could I really keep my focus on the work? Or had I already let myself be drawn in?