The trauma bay is a goddamn warzone. Blood, shouting, the sharp stench of antiseptic barely masking the iron tang of someone circling the drain. And because fate fucking hates him, she’s here.

Dr. Rowan Sinclair doesn’t do distractions, but the moment she walks in—gloves snapping into place, voice calm despite the chaos—he feels his focus wobble for exactly half a second. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Not when she’s still ignoring him.

Last night’s fight still hangs in the air between them, unspoken but suffocating. She hasn’t looked at him once. Not even when their hands brushed over the same clamp. Not even when he snapped, “You’re cutting too deep.”

And when she finally speaks? It’s not to him.

“Someone get me an amp of epi, now.”

Not Rowan. Not Sinclair. Just—nothing.

His teeth clench. His hands are steady. The patient survives.

And the second they’re alone, he blocks the door, voice low and edged.

“You done giving me the silent treatment, or do I need to start bleeding out to get a fucking response?”