Page 10 of Scout

Now it’s over.

I push off the counter, run a hand through my hair, and head toward the shower. Hot water. Scrub it off. That’s what I need. A reset.

Because I won’t be seeing Kendrix again.

And I shouldn't care.

But fuck…

I do.

Kendrix

The page comes through while I’m finishing rounds—Trauma bay, STAT—and I know who sent it before I even look.

Xavier.

The guy never uses a nurse when he wants me. No, he has to drag me down there himself, like he’s still got some kind of claim.

I press the elevator button harder than I need to and tell myself to focus. It’s an emergency. Be professional. Be present.

Not picturing Scout on his knees. Not replaying the way he moaned when I fucked him into my mattress. Not remembering the way he smiled when I wiped him down after.

Goddamn it.

He was paid. I paid him.

A high-end escort. A distraction. A performance.

Nothing serious.

Nothing that mattered.

Then why can’t I stop thinking about how soft his lips felt or the fact that, for the first time in maybe a year, someone looked at me like I was wanted. No secrets. No shame. No hiding.

The ER doors open, and there he is; Xavier, posted by the trauma bay, arms crossed, jaw set.

Perfect.

He doesn’t even pretend to hide the tension radiating off him. He looks like he’s trying to figure out whether I let Scout fuck me or if it was the other way around—as if it matters. As if it’s any of his business.

I walk up, calm and clipped. “What’ve we got?”

Xavier hands me the chart. “Male, late twenties. Motorcycle versus guardrail. Lost a lot of blood en route, left femur shattered, possible abdominal bleeding.”

I scan the report. “Vitals stable?”

“For now. Barely.”

I nod and step inside. The guy’s pale, soaked in road rash and gravel, blood already pooling around the stretcher sheets. His breathing is ragged. One eye swollen shut.

“Let’s get him up to the OR, stat,” I say, snapping into it.

We roll the gurney toward the elevators, the surgical team forming like clockwork around me. The moment I enter the OR, my hands move on muscle memory. I scrub in, don the sterile gown and gloves, and let instinct take over.

This is my zone. This is the one place my brain usually quiets.

But not today.