Page 50 of Crossing the Line
"Do we?" Harper's question was quiet but direct. "Pretend it didn't happen?"
Carmen felt her throat tighten. They'd crossed a line tonight that went far beyond their previous secret encounters. This wasn't just physical attraction or careful professional distance. This was Harper demanding everything Carmen had to give and Carmen choosing to give it despite every rational reason not to.
"Harper, the complications we discussed?—"
"Are still real," Harper finished. "I know. Your career, my internship, my mother's friendship with you. None of that has changed."
But something in Harper's voice suggested she wasn't planning to let those complications control their choices anymore. Carmen sat up slightly, reaching for her blouse with hands that trembled more from emotional overwhelm than the cooling night air.
"Then what has changed?" Carmen asked as she pulled her clothes back on, the professional armor feeling foreign after the vulnerability they'd just shared.
Harper smiled, a expression both tender and determined. "I have," she said simply. "And I think you have too."
The fog was beginning to shift, no longer the solid wall of white that had wrapped them in privacy. Soon, the harbor lights would be visible again, and with them the reminder that they existed in a world beyond this rooftop sanctuary.
Carmen stood and helped Harper gather her scattered scrubs, their movements efficient despite the intimacy they'd just shared. But as Harper pulled her top over her head, Carmen caught her wrist.
"I meant what I said," Carmen whispered, the words urgent in the dissipating fog. "About wanting to try. About you being worth the risk."
Harper's fingers interlaced with hers, warm and sure. "I know," she said. "And tomorrow, we figure out what that actually means."
As they prepared to return to the hospital and their separate cars, Carmen felt the weight of what they'd chosen settling around her like the fog itself—beautiful and transformative, but impossible to hold onto when morning came.
14
HARPER
Harper's alarm hadn't even gone off when she woke, her body still thrumming with the memory of Carmen's hands on her skin and lips. The morning light streaming through her apartment windows felt different—sharper, more alive—as if the world had been repainted in colors she'd never noticed before.
She stretched beneath her sheets, muscles pleasantly sore from their rooftop encounter, and let herself replay the night in vivid detail: Carmen's tears on her cheeks when she'd finally admitted her fear, the way her voice had broken when she'd whispered "I want to try," and the desperate hunger in her kiss when professional walls had finally crumbled completely.
But alongside the satisfaction was a restlessness that made Harper's skin feel too tight. They'd crossed every line they'd drawn for themselves, confessed feelings they'd been hiding, and chosen each other despite impossible complications. And today, Harper would have to pretend it had never happened.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Carmen:“Good morning. Hope you slept well.”
The same professional politeness they'd been exchanging for weeks, but now it felt like a betrayal. Harper stared at the message until her vision blurred, then typed and deleted a dozen responses. What she wanted to write was: I can still taste you. I don't want to hide anymore. Last night changed everything, and I love you.
What she sent was:“Very well, thank you. Looking forward to today's cases.”
Harper threw her phone across the bed and slinked to the shower. The hot water couldn't wash away the bitter taste of their careful charade, and by the time she emerged, her decision was made. She couldn't spend another day pretending Carmen was just her supervisor, couldn't deflect another concerned question from Alice and Piper, couldn't smile and nod while her mother talked about work-life balance without knowing Harper had found the person she wanted to build a life with.
It was time to stop hiding.
An hour later, Harper found herself standing outside Café Luna, watching her mother through the window. Natalie sat at her favorite corner table, reviewing what looked like patient files over her morning coffee, silver reading glasses perched on her nose. She looked so much like the woman Harper remembered from childhood—brilliant, focused, completely absorbed in the work that defined her—that Harper felt a pang of something approaching homesickness.
The bell above the door chimed as Harper entered, and Natalie looked up with that radiant smile that had sustained Harper through years of academic pressure and self-doubt.
"There's my brilliant daughter," Natalie said, rising to embrace Harper with the easy affection that made their complicated relationship feel simple. "You look..." She paused, studying Harper's face with the clinical precision of someone trained to read subtle symptoms. "Different. Rested and happy."
Harper felt heat creep up her neck. Could her mother really see the afterglow of Carmen's touch in her expression? "I slept well."
"Good. You've seemed tense lately." Natalie gestured for Harper to sit as she signaled the server. "How are things at the hospital? Is your rotation with Carmen still going well?"
The casual mention of Carmen's name made Harper's pulse spike. This was it, the opening she'd been hoping for. "Actually, that's something I wanted to talk to you about."
Natalie's expression shifted slightly, her maternal radar activated. "Is there a problem? Carmen mentioned you're doing exceptional work, but if there's some kind of conflict?—"
"There's no conflict," Harper said quickly, then realized that wasn't entirely true. "Well, not the kind you're thinking. Mom, I need to tell you something important, and I need you to hear me out completely before you respond."
