Page 33 of Outbreak Protocol
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." The admission surprises me with its fierce certainty. "Emma matters to you, so she matters to me. Anna matters to you, so this matters to me."
Felix turns in my arms, face showing vulnerability that professional competence usually conceals. "When did this happen? When did we become..."
"Partners," I finish. "Essential to each other's functioning."
He nods, understanding passing between us without need for elaborate explanation. Crisis has accelerated emotional development that might normally take months, compressed relationship-building into intense shared experience.
"We should get back," Felix murmurs, though his body leans into mine—his hips brushing against me, his breath warm and uneven against my lips. "Sarah’s adaptive modelling needs epidemiological input."
"Not yet."
The words come out rough, low—their own promise. My hands cradle his face, fingers tracing the stubble along his jaw, the curve of his lower lip. Dark lashes cast shadows over his cheeks, but when he lifts his gaze to meet mine, his pupils widen, swallowing hazel into something darker. Wanting.
I don’t kiss him. Not yet.
Instead, I let my mouth hover, our breath mingling, heat thrumming between us like a pulse. His throat works—he swallows—and my thumb drags slow along the trembling line of his bottom lip before I finally press in.
The kiss tastes of coffee and exhaustion, of somethingdesperate beneath every careful exhale—like trust kept caged too long, now fraying into trembling need. His hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and the sound he makes against my lips sends white heat searing down my spine.
We break apart—too soon—but his forehead presses to mine, breaths ragged, his pulse wild under my fingertips where they still trace his neck.
Anna might be the reason we stand here, but the air between us—heavy with want—is ours.
Felix lets out a shaky laugh, fingers tightening where they grip my waist. "Okay," he breathes, voice ruined. "Now—now I’m ready."
Only he isn’t. Neither of us is.
Not for what comes next.
We return to the conference room hand in hand, no longer pretending this is purely professional partnership. Sarah looks up from her laptop and smiles with satisfaction that suggests she's been expecting this development.
"Adaptive modelling protocols are ready," she announces. "Yuki's algorithms are processing real-time data streams. Aleksandr's coordinated with military for expanded sampling. We just need epidemiological parameters for optimization."
I settle at my workstation, Felix taking position beside me with natural synchronization. Our chairs align automatically, shoulders brushing as we review data streams flowing across multiple screens.
"Transmission variables first," I murmur, fingers finding familiar keyboard patterns.
"Clinical progression markers," Felix responds, pulling up patient databases.
Later that night, as I pass by Yuki's workstation, I expect to see her deep in calculations. Instead, she is folding a tiny, intricate paper crane from a data printout. She has a small collection of them—perhaps a dozen—lined up on her monitor. She doesn't look up, simply says, "My grandmother believes if you fold athousand, you get one wish." She carefully adds the new crane to the line. "At this rate, I will need all of them."
We work seamlessly, thoughts aligning with practiced efficiency. Felix's clinical insights inform my statistical models while my analytical frameworks organize his patient observations. The collaboration feels as natural as breathing, essential partnership that's become foundation for our outbreak response.
Around us, the team operates with similar dedication. Sarah sequences viral samples with focused intensity, Yuki refines algorithms with mathematical precision, Aleksandr coordinates containment logistics with military efficiency. We've become family unit bonded by shared mission and mutual dependence.
But at the centre, Felix and I form the analytical heart of response efforts. Hospital staff now approach us as unified entity, seeking combined expertise rather than separate consultations. Our professional integration mirrors personal development, boundaries dissolving under pressure of shared crisis.
As morning light creeps through conference room windows, I realize how completely my life has changed. The careful emotional distance I've maintained since Astrid's death has transformed into intimate partnership that strengthens rather than weakens my medical effectiveness.
Felix catches me watching him and smiles—tired but genuine expression that makes my chest tight with unfamiliar emotion. Love, I think. This must be what love feels like when it develops through shared purpose rather than casual attraction.
"Back to work?" he asks softly.
"Back to work."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
