Page 34 of Crossing the Line
"I know," Harper said, her voice equally soft. "But pretending we don't feel this isn't working, is it? We can barely look at each other without the air changing. We work together like we're meant to be partners, not just teacher and student."
Carmen's analytical mind tried to catalog all the reasons this was impossible, all the ways it could go wrong. But Harper was standing close enough to touch, her eyes bright with something that looked like hope mixed with determination.
"Carmen," Harper said, reaching out to brush her fingers against Carmen's wrist. The contact was light, barely there, but it sent electricity through Carmen's entire nervous system. "I'm not asking you to throw away your career or mine. I'm asking you to stop pretending that what we have is just professional admiration."
The touch was Carmen's undoing. All her careful control, all her professional boundaries, all her logical reasons for maintaining distance—they crumbled under Harper's gentle fingers on her skin.
"I don't know how to do this," Carmen admitted, her voice barely audible. "I don't know how to want someone and still maintain the professional relationship we need."
"We'll figure it out," Harper said, her thumb tracing a small circle on Carmen's wrist. "Together. The way we figured out that cardiac simulation, the way we worked through the trauma case yesterday. We're good at solving complex problems."
Carmen looked down at Harper's hand on her wrist, then up at her face. The hope in Harper's expression was almost unbearable..
"This could destroy everything," Carmen said, but even she could hear that her voice lacked conviction.
"Or it could be the best thing that's ever happened to both of us," Harper replied. "Either way, I'd rather know than spend the rest of this rotation wondering what if."
Carmen felt herself wavering on the edge of a decision that would change everything. Harper's fingers were warm against her skin, her presence both calming and electrifying. The simulation lab around them felt like a bubble outside normal hospital rules, a place where they could be honest about what they wanted.
"Harper," Carmen said, and heard her own voice crack slightly on the name.
"Yes?"
Carmen looked at Harper's face—serious, hopeful, beautiful in the morning light filtering through the lab windows—and felt her last defenses collapse completely.
"I want this too," she whispered. "God help me, I want this more than I've wanted anything in years."
Harper's smile was radiant, transforming her entire face with relief and joy. She stepped closer, close enough that Carmen could feel her warmth.
"Then let's try," Harper said softly. "Let's see what happens when we stop fighting this."
Carmen felt herself nodding, swept along by Harper's certainty and her own desperate longing for connection. The professional warnings in her head grew quieter, overwhelmed by the recognition that Harper was offering her something she'd thought she'd lost forever: the possibility of being wanted for exactly who she was.
The moment stretched between them, and Harper's hand was still warm on Carmen's wrist Carmen felt herself leaning forward, drawn by the promise in Harper's eyes and the recognition that she'd never wanted anything as much as she wanted this connection.
Then the sound of footsteps echoed in the corridor outside the simulation lab.
Carmen jerked back as if she'd been burned, the spell broken by the harsh reminder of where they were. The hospital. Her workplace. Where anyone could walk in and see them standing too close, touching too intimately, crossing every professional boundary she'd spent her career respecting.
"Someone's coming," Carmen whispered, her voice tight with sudden panic.
The footsteps passed by without stopping, but the damage was done. Reality crashed over Carmen like ice water, washing away the warmth of Harper's touch and the heady rush of mutual confession. What had she been thinking? What had she almost done?
"Carmen," Harper said, reaching for her again, but Carmen stepped back, rebuilding the distance between them with visible effort.
"This was a mistake," Carmen said, her voice reverting to the professional tone she'd maintained for days. "I shouldn't have… We can't?—"
"Carmen, please," Harper's voice carried urgency, as if she could sense Carmen's retreat happening in real time. "Don't do this. Don't run from what just happened between us."
But Carmen was already moving toward the door, her movements sharp with the kind of controlled panic that came from recognizing how close she'd come to destroying everything she'd worked for.
"This was inappropriate," Carmen said, not looking at Harper. "I'm your supervisor. You're my student. I let my personal feelings compromise my professional judgment."
"Your personal feelings?" Harper's voice carried a note of desperation. "Carmen, two minutes ago you admitted you wanted this. You can't just take that back."
Carmen paused at the door, her hand on the handle, but she didn't turn around. "I can and I am. What I want doesn't matter. What matters is maintaining the professional standards this hospital expects from its attending physicians."
"So that's it?" Harper's voice was quiet now, wounded. "You're just going to pretend this never happened?"
