Page 52 of Crossing the Line
"Dr. Langston shows real aptitude for emergency medicine," Carmen said, her voice carefully neutral. "She handles complex cases with admirable composure."
The praise should have felt wonderful. Instead, it felt like being patted on the head by a stranger. Harper wanted Carmen's approval, but she wanted it as the woman who'd whispered "I love you" against her skin, not as the attending physician who evaluated her surgical technique with clinical detachment.
The morning progressed with excruciating normalcy. Harper participated in surgical rounds, answered questions with the same focused attention she'd always brought to her work, and maintained the professional mask that felt more suffocating with each passing hour. During the valve replacement procedure, she and Carmen moved together with their usual synchronization, but now Harper was hyperaware of every moment when their hands nearly touched, every time Carmen'svoice dropped to the intimate tone she used when explaining complex procedures.
In the OR, with other staff present and the patient's life literally in their hands, Harper could almost forget the weight of their secret. Carmen's surgical skill was beautiful to watch, her movements precise and confident, and Harper found herself falling in love all over again with the woman who could repair hearts with steady hands and unwavering focus.
But afterward, as they completed their post-operative notes, the silence between them felt deafening. Carmen sat across the desk from Harper, reviewing surgical documentation with the same attention she'd always shown, but Harper could see the careful set of her shoulders and the way she avoided meeting Harper's eyes.
"The procedure went well," Carmen said finally, her voice taking on the tone she used when providing feedback to students. "Your suturing technique has improved significantly since your first week."
Harper's pen stilled on her notepad. Carmen was talking to her like she was any other intern, like they hadn't shared the most intimate parts of themselves under the darkening sky just hours ago.
"Thank you," Harper said, but the words came out sharper than intended. She saw Carmen's slight flinch, her professional mask flickering for just a moment.
They finished their documentation in silence. Carmen signed off on Harper's notes with the same thorough efficiency she'd always shown, but Harper noticed the slight tremor in her hands, the way she seemed to be holding herself together by sheer will.
When Carmen handed back the paperwork, their fingers brushed for a fraction of a second—skin touching skin in the most innocent of professional interactions. But Harper felt thecontact like electricity, saw the way Carmen's breath caught almost imperceptibly, and realized they were both drowning in the same suffocating pretense.
"Is there anything else?" Carmen asked, her voice carefully steady.
Harper looked at her across the desk—this brilliant, beautiful woman who'd chosen vulnerability over safety just hours ago, who'd whispered promises against Harper's lips while the city disappeared in fog. Now Carmen sat rigid with professional composure, treating Harper like a colleague rather than the person she'd claimed was worth any risk.
"No," Harper said, standing to leave. "Nothing else."
But as she reached the door, Harper turned back. Carmen was still sitting at the desk, staring down at her hands, and for a moment she looked so lonely that Harper's chest ached with the urge to cross the room and hold her.
Instead, Harper left the office and closed the door behind her, carrying the bitter realization that loving someone and being allowed to show it were two entirely different things.
The hallway outside Carmen's office buzzed with normal hospital activity: nurses discussing patient care and residents reviewing cases, the controlled chaos of medical professionals doing work that mattered. But Harper walked through it all feeling like she was suffocating on her secrets and drowning in the space between what she wanted to say and what she was allowed to express.
By the time she reached the elevator, Harper's frustration had crystallized into something approaching fury. Not at Carmen—she understood the professional necessities that demanded their careful distance—but at the situation that forced them to treat their love like something shameful.
Harper was done accepting that their relationship had to exist only in stolen moments far away from prying eyes. She wasdone pretending that the most important thing in her life was just another professional complication to be managed.
It was time for Carmen to choose what mattered more: the safety of hiding or the risk of building something real.
Harper stood at the elevator bank, her hand hovering over the call button. She could go home, nurse her frustration in private, and pretend tomorrow would be different. But the weight of Carmen's careful distance and the memory of being called "Ms. Langston" like she was a stranger made Harper's chest burn with renewed determination.
No. She was done walking away.
Harper turned on her heel and strode back down the corridor toward Carmen's office. The evening shift was settling into its quieter rhythm, most of the day staff having departed, leaving the hallways dimmer and more private. Perfect. Through the frosted glass door, she could see Carmen's silhouette bent over paperwork, and for a moment Harper hesitated. She could walk away, go home, text Carmen some professionally appropriate message and pretend this suffocating charade was sustainable.
Instead, she knocked once and entered without waiting for permission.
Carmen looked up from her computer, surprise flickering across her face before that damned mask slipped back into place. "Ms. Langston, what can I do for you?"
The formal address made Harper's chest burn with frustrated rage. She closed the office door behind her with deliberate care, the soft click echoing in the small space.
"We need to talk," Harper said, her voice steadier than the chaos in her chest.
"About?" Carmen's fingers hovered over her keyboard, as if she could hide behind administrative tasks and professional courtesy.
Harper moved closer to the desk, close enough to see the tension around Carmen's eyes, the way her jaw was set with the kind of rigid control that suggested she was barely holding herself together.
"About last night," Harper said, letting her voice drop to something more intimate. "About what happened on the rooftop. About the fact that you're sitting there treating me like a stranger when twelve hours ago you were whispering my name against my skin."
Carmen's breath caught, a barely audible sound that sent heat spiraling through Harper's chest despite her anger. "Harper, we're at work. This isn't the place?—"
