Page 23 of Obeying

Did he hit you?

And as I drive home, I still don't know what I'd do if the answer is yes. But something tells me the bastard would end up at a hospital.

8

KRISTEN

I wake up and wait for it. The fear, the tightness in my chest, the immediate need to check every door and window before my feet touch the floor.

It doesn't come. At least, not the way it usually does.

I'm still anxious. A part of me always is now, a background noise I've stopped trying to turn off. But this morning, there's something else sitting next to it. Something warmer.

I check the time. 6:12. I slept all the way through the night, and I can't remember the last time that happened.

My mind immediately goes to last night, like a continuation of something that happened while I was sleeping.

Logan Maxwell ate dinner with me, his eyes still red from pepper spray, which was somehow the funniest thing I'd ever seen. I smile even now. I'm evil. And I told him about my dad and about the man I left in secret, but he didn't flinch. He didn't try to fix it, make it about himself, turn it into advice, or tell me what I should have done differently. He just listened.

Back in med school, every conversation we had was a competition. Who could be sharper, quicker, more right. If someone had told me ten years ago that Logan Maxwell would sit quietly at a Mexican restaurant and just let me talk about the worst years of my life without interrupting once, I would've laughed in their face.

But that's what he did. He listened. He offered support without trying to take over, and when I couldn't say any more, he didn't push.

And then he drove me home! Waited in his car until I was inside to make sure I was safe. I didn't ask him to do that.

Turns out I might have been wrong about Logan. Lately, I've been seeing so many sides of him I didn't know about. And my heart is doing something stupid every time I think about it—which is annoying because I don't have time for this. He's my attending.

I get ready. I make coffee, drink it at the counter, pack my bag, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm actually looking forward to my shift.

I get to the hospital so early that only the night shift nurses and the coffee machines are awake. I change into my scrubs and head toward the residents' lounge, where I see Logan coming from the other direction. White coat on, coffee in hand, glasses pushed up, reading something on his phone. Same as always. Except today, I don't turn around, duck into a supply closet, or suddenly remember something I need to do on a different floor. I just keep walking.

He looks up when we're a few feet apart. Our eyes meet, and he nods.

"Morning, Dr. Portland."

"Morning, Dr. Maxwell."

His voice is warmer than it used to be. Just slightly. But I catch myself almost smiling, and I let it happen. It feels strange and good at the same time.

"How are the eyes?" I ask.

He lowers his glasses an inch and looks at me over them. His eyes are red around the edges. "Functional. I had to explain to a nurse why I looked like I'd been crying all night."

"What did you tell her?"

"Allergies."

"And she believed that?"

"Immediately. Didn't even blink." He pushes his glasses back up. "Apparently, no one in this hospital can picture me having emotions."

I press my lips together. "I really am sorry."

"You can stop apologizing. I've decided to consider it a bonding experience."

"A bonding experience."

"We went from rivals to attacker and victim to dinner companions in a single evening. That's efficient, even for us."