don't mix work with pleasure
chapter one ?
Dr. Abbot knows how to keep his distance, especially at work. But when a violent case brings a criminal psychologist to his ER, boundaries blur in the quiet hours of the night shift, where trust forms quickly and attraction has nowhere to hide.
The night shift had it’s own music. Monitors hummed in steady intervals, IV pumps chimed softly like impatient reminders, and the robber soles of nurses’ shoes whispered against the polished and stained floor as they moved in practiced efficiency. The fluorescent lights were dimmed just enough to convince the body it was still capable of rest, though no one working under them fell for the ruse.
Dr.Abbot stood at the nurses’ station, sleeves rolled to the forearms, eyes scanning charts while his vision blurred from the familiar lines and chicken scratches some called his handwriting.
“Trauma three’s stable,” the charge nurse said, lowering her voice as she approached him with a brand new chart for him to look at. “Vitals are holding. Sedation’s been lightened.”
Abbot nodded once. “Any neuro changes?”
“None so far. CT came back clean, considering.” She hesitated, then added, “Also, admin wants you to speak with the criminal psychologist assigned to the John Doe.”
Abbot looked up. “Now?”
“She’s already here.”
That made him pause.
A criminal psychologist didn’t usually show up this fast, especially not in the middle of the night. “Christmas came early” he deadpanned. They were consultants, external, deliberate, fond of daylight and courtrooms. Not the type to hover in an ER that still smelled faintly of antiseptic and adrenaline.
“She’s in Consult B,” the nurse continued. “Said she wanted to speak with the attending who stabilized him.”
Abbot exhaled slowly, then closed the chart. “I’ll handle it.”
As he turned down the hallway, the sounds of the department shifted behind him, replaced by a quieter stretch of corridor reserved for offices and consult rooms. The walls here were lined with framed credentials and outdated hospital art, neutral landscaped meant to calm people who rarely noticed them, nothing says sorry your dad died like a mediterranean sunset.
Forty five minutes earlier, this hallway had been moral chaos and literal chaos.
*pretend this is a line break idk how to do a line break just imagine*
The call had come in just after 1:30 a.m.
Male, unidentified. Brought in by the FBI and paramedics. Severe blunt force trauma to the head. Multiple stab wounds. Unconscious on arrival.
Abbot had been finishing a lukewarm coffee when the trauma bay doors burst open
The patient was bloodied but breathing pulse thready but present. A John Doe, no ID, no medical history, nothing but injuries and the story the officers delivered in clipped, professional tones.
A kidnapping. A attempted homicide. A teenage girl. Escaped.
She had fought back hard enough to fracture his skull and drive a blade into him more than once before managing to get away and call the police. By the time paramedics arrived, the assailant was barely conscious, bleeding heavily, and combative.
Abbot hadn’t thought about the morality in the moment. He never did.
Airway, breading, circulation.
That was his job, not to play god.
They intubated him, maybe took a little more time than usual to push pain meds, controlled the bleeding, ordered imaging. CT scan first, no obvious intracranial hemorrhage. Lacerations cleaned and closed. Labs drawn. Toxicology pending. A neuro consult placed on standby in case the amnesia observed earlier by paramedics persisted once sedation was reduced.
Stabilized in under twenty minutes.
By the time Abbott stripped off his gloves, the patient was alive, monitored, and officially an open case being treated under police supervision in his ER. Only then had the weight of it settled. Not sympathy, just gravity.
*back 2 the present line break*
Abbot stepped outside consult b.
The door was ajar.
Inside, a woman stood near the window, flipping through a thin folder. The overhead light caught the edges of her hair as she tucked a strand behind her ear. She was not at all what he expected. Too young, his mind reached to immediately , before he could stop it. Not inexperienced, no that wasn’t it. There was nothing tentative about the way she stood or the way she held the file, already annotated with notes and tabs. But she couldn’t be much older than 25, maybe younger. Certainly not old enough, he thought, to be assigned something like this. He knocked once anyway and pushed the door open.
“Dr.Abbot,” he said. “I was told you wanted to speak with me.”
She turned. Up close she looked even younger than he’d thought, but composed, eyes sharp and observant in a way that suggested she missed very little. She offered a small, professional smile and outstretched her hand to his.
“Thank you for coming I’m the criminal psychologist, I’ve been assigned to the John Doe in trauma three.”
Abbot shook her hand, noting briefly that her grip was soft. “You’re the physiologist on the case?” He studied her for half a second longer than necessary, then stepped fully in the room and closed the door behind him.
“Surprised?”
“No, not at all, I just wasn’t aware the department was sending someone in so quickly” he said.
She tilted her head, “Given the nature of the offense and the condition of the assailant, they wanted early behavioral assessment, especially if the amnesia persists. Plus it helps one of their criminal psychologists prefers to work nights.”
Assailant. Not patient
Interesting.
Abbot crossed his arms, the fabric of his scrubs pulling tight across his chest, forearms thick beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt. The motion pulled his shoulders forward making him seem larger than before. “He’s still under observation. Sedation was reduced ten m minutes ago. No significant neurological deficits so far, but he’s confused. Disoriented, memory gaps.”
She nodded already writing. “Retrograde or anterograde?”
His eyebrows raised, impressed. “Unclear right now, he doesn’t recall the incident or events immediately preceding it. We’ll know more once he’s fully awake.”
“And medically?”
Abbot shifted into familiar territory, words flowing out like a practiced performance.
“Severe blunt force trauma to the left temporal region, likely caused by a heavy object, impact patterns suggest multiple strikes. Lacerations and puncture wounds to the torso and upper extremities consistent with a bladed weapon. No organ perforation, no intracranial bleed on CT, we’re still monitoring for delayed swelling.”
She looked up at him, hair she moved from in front of her face before back in front, ‘that’s why all his doctors tie their hair back’ he thought. “Prognosis?”
“He’ll live.”
A beat. She didn’t react just wrote it down.
“Do you anticipate lasting cognitive impairment?” she asked. “Too early to tell,” Abbot said. “”But amnesia could be transient, or it could complicate your work.
She smiled at that, so the girl does have a sense of humor, “It usually does”
As she spoke, Abbot found himself noticing things he shouldn’t have been cataloging, the way she listened without interrupting, the absence of performative concern for a criminal, the fact she wasn’t trying to moralize the situation, the choices she made in color coding her notes, that strand of hair that kept falling in front of her face. She was focused, grounded, competent.
Which was worse somehow. She asked about too screens, prior injuries, whether he had exhibited agitation upon arrival. Abbot answered automatically, only realizing halfway through he was enjoying the exchange more than he should. He cleared his throat.
“There’s a guard posted,” he added. “Police presence remains until he’s transferred or cleared.”
“I’d expected as much.” She closed the folder. “I’d like to speak with him once he’s more coherent, see what he’s willing or unwilling to engage with.”
Abbot hesitated. “He’s dangerous”
Her eyes met his, “I know.”
The silence stretched, “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said gathering her things. “That should give him time to wake up”
Abbot nodded. “I’ll make sure you’re cleared to enter” She reached for the door fingers brushing the handle when he stopped her, “Oh and I’d prefer to be with you when you speak to him.”
She turned, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Hospital policy?”
“Partly,” he said. Then after a beat, “And it’ll give me peace of mind.”
“I don’t usually get escorts,” she said.
“You’re welcome to decline,” Abbot replied. She studied him for a moment longer than nodded.
“An hour, don’t be late” she said. Then she was gone, converse soft against the floor leaving the room quiet. Abbot stood there for a minute, then exhaled and turned back toward the ER, already counting the minutes until an hour passed.
