By the fourth week of working together, the pediatric department had developed a theory.
Actually, several theories.
Theory One : Darrell Woods and Matt Collins secretly hated each other.
Theory Two : They were best friends and refused to admit it.
Theory Three : They were one hospital shift away from falling in love.
The nurses preferred Theory Three.
Darrell preferred not hearing any of them.
Tonight’s shift began at midnight.
The pediatric emergency department buzzed with its usual mixture of crying toddlers, exhausted parents, and overworked staff.
Darrell walked through the automatic doors carrying an iced coffee and a stack of patient notes.
Tonight’s overnight outfit combined comfort and practicality:
© Deep Burgundy scrubs with a fitted black undershirt.
© Black athletic sneakers with cushioned soles.
© Natural makeup with soft bronze eyeshadow and waterproof mascara.
© Hair styled into a sleek low ponytail.
© Silver star earrings.
© Black smartwatch.
© Delicate silver ring on her right hand index finger.
Almost immediately, she noticed Matt the nurses’ station.
He was rubbing the center of his chest discreetly.
Only once.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed.
Darrell did.
His mild heart condition wasn’t serious enough to stop him from working, but it was serious enough that he occasionally forgot to take care of himself.
And that irritated her more than it should have.
“You skipped dinner.”
Matt looked up from a chart.
“Hello to you too.”
“You skipped dinner.”
“How would you know?”
Darrell pointed toward the untouched sandwich sitting beside his paperwork.
Matt sighed.
Caught.
Again.
Tonight he wore:
ÞDark navy surgical scurbs.
ÞCharcoal jacket with rolled sleeves.
ÞBlack sneakers.
ÞSilver watch.
ÞSlightly messy hair from hours in surgery.
“You monitor everyone this clearly?” he asked.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Matt raised an eyebrow.
Darrell immediately regretted speaking.
Fortunately, a patient call interrupted them before either could say anything else.
-
The night became a blur.
A toddler with a high fever.
A teenager with a broken arm.
An asthma attack.
A frightened seven – year- old who refused medicine until Darrell promised him extra dinosaur stickers.
By 2:47 AM, everyone looked exhausted.
Including Darrell.
Especially Matt.
When she entered the staff lounge, she found him staring at surgical reports while drinking what appeared to be his fourth coffee.
“That’s a terrible idea.”
Without looking up, he replied, “Which part?”
“All of it.”
Darrell placed a paper bag on the table.
Food.
Matt looked suspicious.
“What is that?”
“A turkey sandwich.”
“You bought me a sandwich?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
His smile appeared immediately.
Which only made it worse.
-
At exactly 3:02 AM, the hospital became unusually quiet.
No alarms.
No emergency pages.
No crying children.
Nothing.
The silence felt almost unnatural.
Darrell sat beside the large cafeteria window watching rain slide down the glass.
The city beyond looked distant and blurred.
For once, she wasn’t working.
For once, neither was Matt.
He arrived carrying two fresh coffees.
“You’re enabling a caffeine addiction.”
“I’m investing in workplace productivity.”
Darrell accepted the cup anyway.
Outside, lightning flashed across the sky.
For a while they simply sat there.
Not speaking.
Not needing to.
Then Matt finally broke the silence.
“You know, most people avoid getting attached here.”
Darrell understood immediately.
The pediatric wing.
The patients.
The families.
The heartbreak.
“Most people fail,” she replied.
Matt looked at her.
“You don’t keep your distance”.
“Neither do you”.
That earned a quiet laugh.
“No,” Matt admitted. “I don’t.”
For a moment, his expression changed.
Less surgeon.
More father.
More man.
“Alice gets attached too easily,” he said softly.
Darrell smiled slightly.
“She gets that from you.”
“I do not .”
“You absolutely do.”
-
As if summoned by her name –
Tiny footsteps appeared moments later.
“Daddy?”
Both doctors turned.
Alice Collins stood in the cafeteria doorway wrapped in a blanket like a tiny burrito.
A sleepy nurse followed behind her.
“She woke up from a nightmare.”
Alice immediately spotted Darrell.
And immediately abandoned her father.
“Darrell!”
Matt looked personally betrayed.
Today’s late-night Alice outfit was adorable enough to distract an entire hospital:
© Oversized sky – blue pajama set covered in cartoon stars.
© Fluffy bunny slippers.
© Curly hair gathered into a loose side braid.
© Silver moon – shaped hair clip.
© Stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm.
She climbed onto the seat beside Darrell without invitation.
Again.
“Bad dream?” Darrell asked.
Alice nodded.
“There was a giant broccoli.”
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose.
“That’s not a nightmare.”
“It is if it wants to hug you.”
Darrell laughed so suddenly she nearly spilled coffee.
The sound surprised all three of them.
Because Darrell rarely laughed that openly.
Alice looked delighted.
Matt looked distracted.
And neither adult noticed how long he watched her smile.
-
By the end of the night, the rain had finally stopped.
The first hints of sunrise painted the hospital windows pale gold.
Darrell gathered her things and prepared to leave.
Matt walked beside her toward the parking structure.
For once, neither seemed eager to say goodbye.
The silence felt comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
As they reached the elevator, Matt spoke quietly.
“You know there’s a reason hospitals have boundaries.”
Darrell looked at him.
“Professional boundaries.”
“Emotional boundaries.”
The words lingered between them.
Neither moved.
Neither looked away.
Then the elevators doors opened.
Darrell stepped inside.
“Good thing neither of us is a very good at following those.”
The doors closed before Matt could answer.
But as the elevator descended, one thought remained in his mind.
The boundaries were already beginning to blur.
And both of them knew it.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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