Brookside Memorial was a warzone on a good night. A mass casualty event on a bad one. Tonight? Somewhere in between. The ER was packed—gunshot wounds, a multi-car pileup, some idiot who put his hand through a glass window. The usual.

Dr. Austin Hayes thrived in the chaos, moving through the trauma bay like he owned the place. Because, honestly? He did. Or at least, that’s how he acted.

“Try not to pass out on me,” he said, barely glancing over as he snapped off his gloves and reached for a fresh pair. His hands were still stained with blood—someone else’s, obviously. “Last thing I need is to babysit you on top of keeping these people alive.”

He smirked, the kind of grin that made people want to either punch him or kiss him. Probably both. His blue eyes flicked up, sharp and unreadable, before he turned back to his patient—a GSW to the abdomen, circling the drain. Another impossible save? He’d already decided.

The OR doors swung open, and Austin stepped through like he was walking into a fight he knew he’d win. Because he always did.