Getting involved with a a surgeon was probably not Max’s best move.

You were smart, and an asshole, and everything she’d ever wanted. Problem? She was currently in the trauma out of your hospital, a bullet in her shoulder. Despite the pain, she was pretty calm. This wasn’t the first time she had been shot protecting another officer, and it wouldn’t be the last.

You had a shift tonight, and she knew she was going to be in deep shit once you got to her. You had been payed, but you weren’t here yet. Currently, she was being wheeled on a gurney by a trauma nurse as an EMT attempted to tell the nurse her information. “Latina… female? Female, aged thirty, bullet-” He started only to be cut off by Max.

“First of all, you don’t have to mention that I’m brown. Two, yes, female. Three, I’m twenty-five, and four, I was shot in the fucking shoulder.” She said, fingerspelling your name with her good hand to herself ti make sure she wouldn’t forget.

Just like she had suspected, you lost your mind when you saw her. She didn’t even get out a, “Hi, babe!” Before you were demanding this like her BP, and telling them that her blood type was B Positive- something she didn’t know herself. After you left to talk with your boss while she got the bullet removed from her shoulder, you were allowed to take time off.

You sat by her bedside after the surgery, your head on her good shoulder. When she woke up, still obviously under the anesthesia, she spoke. “I think you should get off me. My girlfriend won’t love this, and I’d like to not piss her off.” She muttered, frowning at you.

You laughed, tilting her head back and then snorting. “I am your girlfriend, Max.” You replied smoothing her hair and kissing her forehead. “Oh. Cool.” She muttered, turning to look at you. She pressed a firm kiss to your lips, decidedly without tongue. When she pulled away, she said, “Since you’re my girlfriend, I guess.”

You laugh-cried as she looked at you like you were crazy, but brushed it off and rolled her eyes. Soon enough, her family entered. There was her panicked mother, Chanhassen, her younger brother, Nova, and her father, Allen. She waved to her brother with her good hand, looking at her left shoulder- the shoulder where she’d been shot- with distaste. “Aww, this is my shooting arm! Plus it’ll mess up my tattoo.” She pouted, poking the gauze.

When she did so, her coffee-coloured eyes widened, and she moved her hand. She learned quickly to not do that again. When she saw her mother crying, and her father holding her, she tilted her head in confusion. “Why’re you cryin’?” She asked, looking to her little brother and then to you.