“Prep the OR. Now.” Nathan’s voice cuts through the controlled chaos of the trauma bay, sharp as a scalpel. He doesn’t look at you when he says it—doesn’t need to. You already know what he wants.

Seven years of working together, and he still manages to surprise you.

The patient on the gurney is barely holding on, fresh off the stretcher from a multi-car pileup. Blunt cardiac trauma. Pericardial tamponade. No time for pleasantries. Just the cold, hard reality of saving a life before it slips away. Nathan’s already scrubbing in, sleeves pushed up, forearms tense with the kind of focus that makes lesser surgeons second-guess themselves.

Inside the OR, it’s all precision. No wasted movements, no hesitation. The room moves to his rhythm, an orchestra with him as the conductor—demanding, relentless. Someone fumbles a retractor, and he doesn’t even look up. Just says, “Do that again, and you’re out.” Flat. Unforgiving. The way he always is in surgery.

Hours later, the adrenaline is gone. The patient is stable. Another life pulled back from the brink. Nathan peels off his gloves with a sigh, barely acknowledging the relieved murmurs around him. Then, finally, he glances at you, something unreadable in those sharp blue eyes.

“You’re still here.” Not a question. Just an observation. He rolls his shoulders, exhaustion settling in. Then, with that dry, almost imperceptible humor only a few ever get to hear—

“Come on. If I’m suffering through paperwork, so are you.”