Page 18 of Obeying

And as the panic ebbs, if only for the moment, my brain returns to the way Logan looked at me in that elevator. There was no confusion, no annoyance, no demand for an explanation. Only concern. I was spiraling and pathetic, and he didn't look at me like I was broken or crazy or someone he needed to report to the administration. He looked at me like you'd look at a friend who needs a little grace.

He used my first name, too. He's never done that before.

When I step back out, I'm functional. Barely, but functional. Every sound feels louder than it should, and every set of footsteps behind me makes my shoulders tense. I chart, check on patients, and smile when people talk to me, but underneath I'm scanning every room I walk into, checking every face, tracking every exit.

I'm rounding a corner too fast and I walk straight into Brennan. His charts go everywhere, papers scattering across the floor.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry." I'm already crouching to pick them up.

"No, no, that was totally on me." He drops down too, scrambling for the pages. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"It was me. I was distracted."

"No, seriously, I was buried in my charts, I didn't even see you⁠—"

"Brennan." I hand him a stack. "It's fine. We're both fine. Nobody's at fault."

He blinks at me. "Right. Yeah. Sorry."

"You just apologized again."

"Sorry." He winces. "That was the third one. I'll stop."

“You good?”

He smiles.

I smile back. He clutches the papers to his chest like they might try to escape again, and gives me a small, sheepish nod before hurrying off down the hall.

Something about the sheer awkwardness of it loosens the knot in my chest, just a fraction. Not enough to fix anything, but enough to keep moving.

The shift ends. I change out of my scrubs in the locker room, pull my jacket on, check my bag twice for my keys, my phone, and my pepper spray. I always check twice. I head toward the bus stop five minutes away, and the evening air hits my face, cool and clean, so I think, okay. You made it. You're out. Just get home.

It's dark and the street is quieter than I'd like. Most of the day shift left an hour ago. The streetlights are on, but they only cover so much, and the gaps between them feel longer than they should.

I have only taken a few steps when I hear them. Footsteps behind me. Fast, like someone closing the distance.

My stomach clenches. The sidewalk is half-empty, someone is walking toward me too fast, and my brain doesn't process who or why. It just processes a threat.

My hand goes into my bag and closes around the pepper spray. My thumb finds the trigger. I've carried it every day since I left, but I've never had to use it. I always thought when the moment came, I'd hesitate.

I don't hesitate.

When the footsteps reach me and a hand grabs my shoulder, I spin and press down.

Direct hit.

"ARGH!"

My heart drops through the floor.

Logan Maxwell is doubled over in front of me, one hand clamped over his eyes, the other gripping his knee. His glasses are hanging from his collar where he must have tucked them after work hours, and his face is scrunched.

The only thought that survives my scattered brain is I just pepper-sprayed my attending.

7

LOGAN