Page 62 of Obeying

Kristen Portland is nothing like surgery.

Rounds this morning were brutal because of her.

I haven't led rounds with her group in a while. Between the investigation, back-to-back surgeries, and admin meetings about the department budget, Lawson has been covering. But Lawson called in sick today, so I took over. First time in days that I stood in front of the residents, and she was right there in the group, and the distance between us was there before I even opened my mouth.

I stopped at a post-op bed and looked at the group. "Portland. Walk me through Mr. Diaz's hemoglobin trend since yesterday."

"Dropped from 11.2 to 9.8 overnight. No active bleeding on the drain output. Likely hemodilution from the fluids we ran during the case. I'd recheck in six hours and hold on transfusion unless he drops below 8 or becomes symptomatic."

Perfect answer. Exactly what I would have said. But she delivered the whole thing while looking at the chart in her hands. Not at me. Not once.

"Good," I said.

"Thank you."

She moved on to the next bed. I stood there for a second before following.

During a case this afternoon, we were in the same OR. She handed me instruments before I asked for them, anticipated my next move the way she always does. We worked in perfect sync for forty-five minutes. She was exceptional. And again, she did the whole thing without making eye contact with me once.

It's worse than if she'd yelled at me. Yelling means she's still engaged. This is her being professional. Correct. Distant. Putting a wall up between us, brick by careful brick.

And I don't blame her at all.

Mitchell catches me in the lounge after my last case. I'm sitting here with a cold cup of coffee I've been holding for twenty minutes, and he takes one look at me and sits down.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"You look like you lost a patient. Did you lose a patient?"

"No. My cases were clean."

"Then why do you look like that?" He waits. I don't answer. He leans back and crosses his arms. "It's Ms. Rival again, isn't it?"

I don't say anything for a few seconds. Then I decide to tell him. Not everything, but enough. That I went to see Miguel behind her back. That she came to my office and told me I sounded like the man who hurt her.

Mitchell is quiet for a second. He rubs the back of his neck. "So you did the one thing she needed you not to do."

"I was trying to⁠—"

"Protect her. Yeah, I know." He raises a brow at me. "And how did that work out?"

I don't answer because the answer is sitting in my cold coffee.

He goes quiet again. Probably figuring out the nicest way to tell me it's all my fault and I'm an idiot. Then he opens his mouth.

"Logan, you're my best friend, and you're the best surgeon I know, but you are terrible at this." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You can't operate on a relationship. You can't cut out the bad part, stitch it up, and call it fixed. She's not a patient. She's a person who told you what she needed, and you decided you knew better."

"So what do I do?"

"You stop trying to fix it. You go to her. You ask her what she needs. And then you do that. Even if it kills you to not be the one in charge." He stands up. "Also, apologize. Like, actually apologize. Not the 'I'm sorry, but here's why I was right' kind. The real kind. Where you don't get to be right at the end."

"Sounds unfamiliar."

"I'm sure it does for you. But you need to get used to it sometimes." He walks backward toward the door, a wry smile plastered on his face. "Welcome to being human, Maxwell. It's terrible. You'll hate it."

He leaves. I sit there in the quiet, and her words echo in my mind again.