Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
CASSIAN
PRESENT DAY
I started arriving at protocol meetings exactly on time.
Not early, the way I used to. Not with coffee in hand and small talk ready, the way I approached every other professional obligation in my life.
Just exactly on time, sliding into my seat as Patel began speaking, minimizing the window for any interaction that wasn't strictly necessary.
I stopped lingering afterward too. The moment Patel dismissed us, I was already packing my notes, already standing, moving toward the door with a mumbled excuse about patients waiting or charts needing review.
I made sure there was always someone else in the room.
A resident asking questions. Another attending reviewing data.
Anyone who could serve as a buffer between me and the woman sitting at the opposite end of the table.
It wasn't working.
Every time I saw Calla in the hallway, my composure would crack a little.
I would forget what I was saying mid-sentence, words dissolving on my tongue like sugar in water.
My hands fumbled with charts I'd been holding steady.
Once, I walked into a door frame while trying to look casual walking past her.
A freaking door frame. Like a character in a bad romantic comedy. Like a teenager who'd never spoken to a woman before.
I was thirty-one years old. I'd performed hundreds of surgeries. I'd delivered death notifications to grieving families without my voice breaking. I'd held patients' hands while they took their last breaths and maintained perfect composure.
But Calla Karras walked into a room, and I became someone I didn't recognize.
Riven, naturally, found it hilarious.
"You look like a teenager with a crush," he said over lunch in his office.
We were eating sandwiches from the cafeteria, a weekly ritual we'd maintained since he'd taken over as CEO.
His desk was immaculate, every paper and pen aligned at perfect angles.
His office looked exactly like him—controlled and precise. "It's painful to watch."
"I'm fine."
"You walked into a wall yesterday." He took a bite of his sandwich, chewing with infuriating calm. "Mireya saw the whole thing. She told me about it in great detail."
"It wasn't a wall. It was a door frame. There's a difference."
He raised a brow. "The difference being that a door frame is harder and more embarrassing?"
I dropped my head into my hands. The sandwich sat untouched in front of me, appetite gone. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm usually capable of basic human functioning."
"You were like this when you first started dating her too." Riven's voice carried a hint of sympathy, though with him it was always hard to tell. "You used to trip over your own feet whenever she was nearby. I remember you walked into a glass door at that coffee shop once and left a face print."
I winced. "That was different. We were residents. I was younger."
"And now you're older and somehow worse at hiding it."
I didn't have a response for that.
Riven set his sandwich down and leaned back in his chair, studying me. "Have you considered that maybe the boundaries you're trying to enforce are making things worse?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're spending so much energy avoiding her that it's become its own obsession. You're thinking about not thinking about her, which is still thinking about her."
I heaved a long, deep breath. "That's… very philosophical."
"I read it in a book somewhere." He shrugged. "The point is, you can't outrun this. Whatever you're feeling, you're going to have to deal with it eventually."
"I'm not feeling anything. She's my ex-wife. We're colleagues. That's all."
Riven just looked at me.
"That's all," I repeated, and we both knew I was lying.
Later that afternoon, I sat in my office trying to focus on the stack of patient files that needed signatures. I reached for a pen without looking, my hand closing around the familiar weight of my favorite ballpoint.
It was a black barrel with a silver clip, smooth ink that never skipped no matter how many forms I had to sign.
I'd used this pen every day for six years—through residency, my fellowship, every promotion, achievement and failure that had marked my career. It had become an extension of my hand, so familiar I barely noticed it anymore.
Calla had given it to me during our first year of marriage.
We'd been sitting in our apartment, surrounded by the boxes we still hadn't unpacked from our move. I'd been complaining about the hospital's cheap pens and how they always ran out of ink at the worst possible moment.
She had listened without comment, the way she always did, absorbing information and filing it away somewhere in that brilliant mind of hers. I'd forgotten about the conversation by the next morning.
Two weeks later, she'd pressed this pen into my palm.
"For all those charts you're always complaining about," she'd said. No fanfare or elaborate presentation. Just Calla, solving a problem I'd mentioned once and then dismissed.
That was how she showed love. Not with words or grand gestures, but with attention.
I've used the pen every day since even after the divorce.
I told myself it was practical. It wrote well. Why replace something that worked?
But sitting in my office with the afternoon light fading and Calla's presence haunting every corner of this hospital, I couldn't pretend anymore.
I'd kept it because throwing it away felt like losing another piece of her.
I set the pen down and pushed back from my desk, my hands unsteady.
This had to stop. Whatever I was feeling or residue of our marriage I was still carrying around, it had to stop. Maya deserved better than this. She deserved a partner who was fully present, not one who kept relics of his ex-wife in his jacket pocket like talismans against moving on.
So I did what a responsible partner would. I pulled out my phone and typed a message before I could talk myself out of it.
Cassian
Want to grab dinner tonight? That new place you mentioned?
Maya's response came within minutes.
Maya
I'd love that! What's the occasion?
Cassian
No occasion. Just want to see you.
I stared at the words after I sent them, wondering if they were true. Did I really want to see Maya?
My phone beeped again.
Maya
You're sweet. See you at 7?
Cassian
See you then.
I pocketed my phone and looked at the pen still sitting on my desk. After a long moment, I opened my drawer and dropped it inside, out of sight beneath a stack of old conference programs.
Better. That was better.
On my way home, I stopped at a florist.
The shop was small. I'd driven past it a hundred times. It smelled like earth and water and the sweetness of flowers. An older woman behind the counter looked up when I entered.
"Looking for anything in particular?"
"Roses," I said. "A bouquet. Something nice."
She studied me for a moment, then smiled. "How about these?" She gestured to a display of long-stemmed red roses. "Two dozen. Very romantic."
I stared at the scarlet petals and hummed. "Those are great."
She wrapped them in paper and ribbon while I stood there feeling like a fraud.
Maya loved flowers. She'd mentioned once that her apartment felt sterile without them, all white walls and modern furniture and nothing alive to soften the edges.
I'd meant to buy her flowers a dozen times and never followed through.
Why was I following through now?
I knew the answer. I just didn't want to admit it.
Maya was already home when I arrived, changed out of her scrubs into soft pants and an oversized sweater. Her hair was damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. She looked comfortable. Relaxed. Happy to see me.
Then she noticed the roses, and her expression shifted.
"Cassian?" She stared at the bouquet. "What's all this?"
"Just wanted to do something nice for you.
" I crossed the room and kissed her, trying to pour all my focus into the gesture.
Her lips were warm and familiar, and I waited for something to settle inside me.
Some confirmation that this was right, that she was enough.
"You work so hard. You deserve to be appreciated. "
Maya accepted the roses, but she didn't stop watching my face. "You're sweet. But seriously, what's going on? You're being different."
I swallowed the guilt. "What are you saying?"
"I don't know." She paused, tucking the flowers against her chest. "You're being very attentive. More than usual. It's nice, but it's also making me nervous."
"Why would it make you nervous?" I asked, faking a chuckle to ease the tension in my chest.
"Because you only get like this when something's wrong." She set the roses on the counter and turned to face me fully. "Talk to me. What's happening?"
"Nothing's happening. I just realized I haven't been showing you how much you mean to me. I wanted to fix that."
She held my gaze, and I could see her deciding whether to push, weighing curiosity against the desire to leave well enough alone.
"Okay," she said finally. "Let me put these in water. Then we can go."
We drove to the restaurant I had reserved earlier. Maya had mentioned it weeks ago and dropped hints about wanting to try it, and I'd filed the information away and done nothing about it until tonight.
Guilt made excellent motivation.
I asked about her day, her cases, and her plans for the weekend. I kept the conversation flowing, my attention firmly on her, refusing to let my mind drift to the woman who was probably still at the hospital.
Maya answered my questions. She told me about a complicated bypass, a difficult patient, and a resident who'd impressed her with unexpected competence. She smiled at the right moments and laughed at my jokes and played along with the charade of a perfect evening.
But I could see the doubt in her eyes.
"You're being weird," she said eventually, setting down her fork. Her plate was still half full. Neither of us had been eating with any real appetite.
"I'm not being weird."
"You are. You're trying too hard. I can feel it." She tilted her head, studying me the way she might study a scan that didn't quite make sense. "What's wrong?"
I opened my mouth to deny it again, but the words caught in my throat.
Maya deserved honesty. Maybe not all of it. Maybe not the part where I'd kept my ex-wife's pen for six years or walked into a door frame because I couldn't stop looking at her. But something closer to truth than what I'd been offering.
"The protocol's been taking up a lot of mental space," I said. "Work stuff. It's stressful."
"Is it the protocol?" Her voice was gentle but direct. "Or is it who you're working with?"
My hand froze around my water glass. "What do you mean?"
"Cassian." She reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. "I know Calla's back. Riven mentioned it to Mireya, and Mireya told me. I was waiting for you to bring it up yourself."
The restaurant noise faded to a distant hum. I could hear my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud.
"There's nothing to bring up. We're colleagues. We're working together professionally."
"And that's all?"
"That's all."
Maya went quiet. She traced circles on the back of my hand absently.
"I'm not trying to start a fight," she said. "I'm not accusing you of anything. I just want you to know that if this is hard for you, you can talk to me about it. I'm not going to be irrational just because your ex-wife works in the same building."
"I know you won't. Because there's nothing to worry about." I turned my hand over and laced my fingers through hers. "I love you. I chose you. Calla is my past."
"Okay."
But her eyes held questions she didn't ask. I could see them there, swimming beneath the surface of her acceptance, and I hated that I'd put them there.
I hated that I couldn't make them disappear.
We finished dinner. I paid the bill and helped her with her jacket. She leaned back into me for a moment, a small gesture of trust that made my stomach twist with guilt.
The drive home was quiet. Maya rested her hand on my thigh, her thumb tracing absent patterns through the fabric of my pants. I kept my eyes on the road and tried not to think about how natural and easy this should feel.
"Thank you for tonight," she said as I pulled into our parking garage. "It was really nice."
"You deserve nice things."
She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I know something's bothering you, Cassian. And I know you're not ready to talk about it. But when you are, I'm here. Okay?"
"Okay."
We walked to the elevator together, her hand in mine. She leaned her head against my shoulder while we waited, and I pressed a kiss to her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo.
This was my life now. This woman. This apartment. This future we were building together.
It should be enough.
When we got inside, Maya headed for the bedroom to change while I lingered in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water I didn't want. I reached into my jacket pocket for my phone.
My fingers brushed against something else.
The pen.
I grabbed it without thinking when I left the office. It was muscle memory for the past six years, overriding conscious intention. I told myself I was putting it away, and then I picked it right back up.
I stood in the kitchen for a long moment, holding the pen Calla had given me, listening to Maya move around in the bedroom. The sound of drawers opening and closing. The soft pad of her feet on the hardwood floor.
Then I walked to the junk drawer by the refrigerator, where we kept takeout menus, dead batteries, and things we’ve been meaning to throw away. I dropped the pen inside and pushed the drawer shut.
Out of sight. Out of mind.