Chapter 15 #2
Evie answered immediately, her face filling the screen. She was in pajamas, hair down, makeup gone—the version of herself she only showed Maggie.
“Hi,” Evie said, and the loneliness in her voice was audible.
“Hey,” Maggie replied. “How was dinner? I miss your presence in my apartment. I need some life back.”
“Good. Overwhelming. My aunt wouldn’t stop asking when I’m getting married.” Evie laughed. “I told her to ask me again in six months.”
“Six months,” Maggie echoed.
“Give or take.” Evie shifted, getting more comfortable. “I miss you. The bed’s too big without you.”
“I miss you too,” Maggie said. “But I’m proud of you for going. For spending time with your family.”
“Are you okay? Really?”
“I am,” Maggie said, and realized she meant it. “Lisa saved me from myself. And I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
“About Christmas. About meeting your mom. About saying yes.”
Evie’s face lit up. “Really?”
“If you still want me to come,” Maggie said carefully. “I know it’s not exactly staying under the radar—”
“I don’t care about the radar anymore,” Evie interrupted. “I care about you meeting my family. About having you there for the holidays. About building a life that includes both of us.”
“Then I’m in,” Maggie said. “I’ll come to Sacramento for Christmas.”
“Yeah? You mean it?” Evie’s smile was radiant.
“I sure do.”
They talked for another hour—about nothing, about everything.
Evie told her about her cousin’s new baby, about her mom’s experimental stuffing recipe, about how strange it felt to sleep in her childhood bedroom.
Maggie told her about Lisa’s friendsgiving, about the Die Hard debate, about how she’d spent the afternoon actually enjoying herself instead of spiraling.
When they finally hung up, Maggie felt more settled. Four days apart wasn’t going to kill her. And at the end of it, Evie would come home.
To their home.
Because somewhere in the past month, Maggie had stopped thinking of this apartment as just hers. It was theirs now—Evie’s coffee mug on the counter, her jacket on the chair, her presence woven into every room.
Maggie opened her laptop and pulled up her therapy notes.
Things I’m learning:
Separation doesn’t equal abandonment
Evie can leave and still come back
I can be alone without falling apart
Love doesn’t require constant proximity
Trust is a choice I make every day
She saved the document and closed the laptop, feeling something that might have been progress.
December arrived with unseasonable warmth and the hospital’s annual holiday party.
Maggie stood in the staff lounge, nursing a glass of wine she didn’t want, watching residents and attendings mingle with forced cheerfulness. These events were always awkward—too formal to be fun, too casual to be purely professional.
Across the room, Evie was talking to Dr. Patel and some other residents. She looked beautiful in dark jeans and a deep green sweater, her hair down, laughing at something Dr. Amin said.
Maggie forced herself to look away.
“You’re staring,” Doctor Chen said quietly, appearing at her elbow.
Maggie startled. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Chen said, but there was no judgment in her voice. “Subtly. But you are.”
Maggie took a sip of wine, buying herself time. “How are things going, in your opinion?”
“With the restriction? Better than expected. You’ve both been professional. No incidents. No complaints.” Chen paused. “The committee will be satisfied.”
“Good,” Maggie said.
“But it’s hard,” Chen continued. “Isn’t it? Maintaining that distance.”
Maggie met her gaze. “Yes. Of course it is.”
“Four more months,” Chen said. “Then you’re free to work together again. To acknowledge whatever exists between you. Can you make it four more months?”
“We can,” Maggie said with more confidence than she felt.
Chen nodded slowly. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. Both of you. Taking the hard road instead of the easy one. That takes courage.”
“Or stupidity,” Maggie said lightly.
“Sometimes they look the same,” Chen replied.
Later, as the party was winding down, Maggie found herself near the exit at the same time as Evie. They hadn’t spoken all evening—carefully navigating the space to maintain appropriate distance.
“Doctor Laurel,” Evie said formally.
“Doctor Brooks,” Maggie replied.
They walked toward the elevator, maintaining a professional three feet of distance, neither speaking.
The elevator doors barely had time to finish closing before Evie had turned, bracketed Maggie against the stainless steel wall with a heat that belied the professional armor she wore like second skin.
The silence was electric—two floors in which nothing was allowed but the friction of proximity, the thrum of longing so keen it threatened to slice them both open.
“This is torture,” Evie whispered, and Maggie felt her pulse jump, sharp and adolescent.
“My car doesn’t have cameras,” Maggie replied, the words scraping out of her. Two floors. One. Evie’s eyes never left hers.
When they hit P2, the doors stuttered open and Maggie led the way, walking fast, heels clacking in the echo-chamber of concrete and winter.
They kept three feet of air between them, like always. Like the past six weeks hadn’t trained them to ache for even the shadow of touch, the brush of hands at a patient’s bedside, the flash of eye contact in a crowded hospital corridor.
Her car was exactly as she’d left it: Toyota Camry, silver, immaculate. One of the few things she controlled, still.
They reached the car. A cold gust curled under the garage ceiling, lifting the hair from Maggie’s collar. Before she could open the door, Evie’s hand wrapped around her wrist—lightning, immediate—and spun her, so her back hit the driver’s side with a muted thunk.
Maggie’s breath caught, sharp in the chilled air.
“You said—” Evie’s hands bracketed her face, fingers trembling, “—the second we got to your car. That’s now, Laurel. That’s right fucking now.”
Maggie lost her composure on a dime. Evie’s mouth claimed hers, hard and raw, with none of the tentative edge they’d practiced for weeks.
Her lips were soft, alive, but the way Evie kissed was all hunger—open, wet, desperate to make up for every forced moment of distance, every party and meeting and shift where they’d been required to pretend indifference.
Maggie made a sound—helpless, animal—and pressed back, the length of Evie’s body pinning her to the door, hands already everywhere: waist, ribs, cupping her jaw, threading into her hair and yanking loose the tight elastic until her dark hair fell around their faces like a curtain.
Evie’s tongue licked into her mouth and Maggie let her, let herself be devoured for the first time in a month and a half.
She tasted salt, the memory of wine from the party, and something bright and feral that was just Evie. The cold pressed at her spine but inside, she burned.
Evie’s hands didn’t stay still. They mapped the length of Maggie’s torso, under her coat, blunt fingernails scraping along her shirt until they caught the hem and wormed up beneath, palm spreading hot and possessive against bare skin.
Maggie shuddered, tried to get her hands on Evie, anywhere, tangled in the soft thickness of her sweater, the line of her hips in jeans, and found herself gasping against Evie’s lips, “Not here—someone could—”
“No cameras,” Evie breathed back, biting down on Maggie’s lower lip, and there was a sound in Maggie’s throat she would have denied under oath.
“Inside. Get inside,” Maggie hissed, fighting with the key fob. The door unlocked with a beep that sounded unreasonably loud in the echoing garage.
They crashed into the driver’s seat together, Maggie first, Evie following before she could even close the door behind them.
It was cramped, awkward, the center console jabbing into Maggie’s hip, but Evie just climbed on top of her, straddled her lap, shoving the seat all the way back with one practiced kick of her heel.
She was beautiful like this: cheeks flushed with cold, pupils blown, hair down and wild around her shoulders. Maggie wanted to memorize every detail, every microexpression, but Evie wasn’t interested in stillness or memory—she wanted more, wanted now.
Evie kissed down Maggie’s jaw, bit along her neck, and Maggie groaned, arching into the pressure. She yanked open the buttons of Evie’s jeans—screw the awkward angle, screw the logistics, she was precise, she could manage this, and Evie made it easier by shifting, writhing into her hands.
“Fuck, I missed you tonight,” Evie whispered, teeth grazing the soft skin just below Maggie’s ear.
Maggie’s hands trembled, really shook, as she slid them under the waistband of Evie’s jeans, found the heat there, the slick that told her exactly how much this was needed, how much the last six weeks had sucked for both of them.
“You’re shaking,” Evie said, and her voice was half-mocking, half-fond.
“Not—” Maggie meant to say not cold, but her breath caught as Evie’s own hand slipped inside her blouse, found the lace of her bra, and tugged at her nipple with just the right brutal lack of finesse. Maggie bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
Evie was grinding down against her, urgent, rhythm messy and uncoordinated with the seat belt digging into her side, and Maggie gave up on grace, used two fingers to slide into her, feeling Evie’s whole body tense and then collapse against her chest.
They moved together, Evie’s hand pinning Maggie’s face, their mouths never far apart, words stuttered between gasps:
“Jesus, Maggie, you—”
“Fuck—Evie, just—”
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”
Maggie couldn’t have stopped if the whole staff of Oakridge caught them in the act. She curled her fingers and Evie choked out a sound, almost a sob, clinging so hard Maggie was sure she’d leave bruises.