The Nurse's Night Shift

Grady Memorial is chaos on a Saturday night.

Gunshots, car accidents, overdoses—the usual Philadelphia symphony. I've been charge nurse in this ER for twenty years. Nothing surprises me anymore.

Almost nothing.

"We've got a cop coming in," dispatch crackles. "GSW to the arm. Requesting Brenda specifically."

I freeze. There's only one cop who knows my name.

"ETA?"

"Three minutes."

Marcus Washington wheels in on the stretcher.

Detective, forty-six, decorated. Shot in the arm during a drug bust. Blood everywhere but still cracking jokes.

"Hey, beautiful. Told them it had to be you."

"You're an idiot." I'm already cutting away his sleeve. "Hold still."

"I always do. For you."

We have history.

Nothing serious—a few late-night conversations when he brought in perps, some flirting that never went anywhere. He asked me out twice. I said no twice.

I was married then.

I'm not anymore.

"Through and through," the doctor says after x-rays. "You're lucky."

"I was born lucky." Marcus grins at me. "Especially tonight."

"You could have died, Detective."

"But I didn't." His hand catches mine. "And now I'm looking at the most beautiful nurse in Philadelphia. Worth getting shot."

"That's the morphine talking."

"That's me talking. Morphine just made me brave enough."

His partner leaves around 2 AM.

The ER quiets down. I check on him during my rounds, and he's awake, watching me with those eyes.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"Can't sleep. Too busy thinking."

"About what?"

"About how I've wasted three years not pursuing you."

"Marcus—"

"You're divorced now. I know, I checked." He shifts, winces. "And I'm tired of waiting for the right moment. Tonight could've been it for me, Brenda. Made me realize some things."

I sit on the edge of his bed.

"What things?"

"That life's too short to be scared." His good hand finds my face. "That I've been in love with you since the first time you sutured me up. That I want to take you to dinner when I get out of here, and then keep taking you to dinner until you tell me to stop."

"You're injured—"

"Not that injured."

Against every professional instinct, I kiss him.

Right there in his hospital room, morphine drip running, monitors beeping. He kisses back with his good arm pulling me closer.

"Been wanting to do that for three years," he murmurs.

"Just that?"

"No." His eyes darken. "But I'm guessing this isn't the place."

I glance at the door.

Closed. No window. My break starts in ten minutes.

"Lock it," I hear myself say.

"You serious?"

"Don't make me repeat it."

He's up faster than a man with a gunshot wound should be.

Door locked, blinds closed—then his hands are on me, good arm and bad arm both, like he doesn't even feel the pain.

"I've imagined this," he growls against my neck. "So many nights watching you work."

"Just watching?"

"Watching. Wanting. Dreaming about getting these scrubs off you."

He peels me out of my scrubs like unwrapping a gift.

His eyes travel over my body—the weight that comes from twenty years of night shifts and stress eating—and his expression is pure hunger.

"God, Brenda."

"I'm not young—"

"You're perfect." He backs me toward the bed. "My perfect."

The hospital bed is narrow, but we make it work.

He lies back, mindful of his IV, and I climb on top.

"Your arm—"

"Don't care about my arm." He grips my hip with his good hand. "Care about this. About you."

I take him inside me and we both gasp.

It's been two years since my divorce. Two years of nothing. He fills that emptiness like he was made for it.

"That's it," he groans. "Ride me, Brenda. Take what you need."

I ride him in his hospital bed.

Slow at first, mindful of his injury, then faster as his hips start meeting mine. The bed creaks dangerously. The monitors beep faster.

"Gonna come," he warns.

"Not yet. Wait for me."

I find my rhythm.

Grind against him until the pressure builds, until I'm gasping, until I finally shatter—

He follows me over, crying out something between my name and a prayer.

"That was..." he pants.

"Completely unprofessional."

"Completely necessary." He pulls me down beside him, careful of the IV. "Say you'll have dinner with me."

"You just did a lot more than dinner."

"Dinner first. Then more of this." He kisses my forehead. "Then everything else."

I should feel guilty.

I'm in my work scrubs, in a patient's bed, breaking every rule in the nursing handbook.

But when I look at Marcus—shot, drugged, still looking at me like I'm everything—I don't feel guilty.

I feel found.

"Yes," I finally say.

"Yes?"

"Yes to dinner. Yes to more of this. Yes to..." I take a breath. "Yes to seeing where this goes."

"Best medicine I've had all night."

I laugh, kiss him, then reluctantly untangle myself.

"I have to get back to work."

"I'll be here."

"You better be."

Marcus is discharged three days later.

Dinner happens that weekend.

Then the weekend after.

Then a key exchange.

Then a ring.

The ER staff whispers about how the charge nurse ended up with the detective she sutured up a hundred times.

I let them whisper.

Some wounds lead to healing.

Some night shifts lead to forever.

And sometimes the right person is the one who keeps coming back, shot after shot, just to see you smile.