13. Kristen
KRISTEN
Tonight, some of the residents are celebrating Brennan's birthday. They insisted I come, and I said yes because I'm trying to be the person who says yes to things now. The person who has friends and goes out and doesn't spend every evening alone checking the locks.
The bar is loud and crowded with everyone laughing and taking shots, and I try. I really try. I smile. I clink glasses. Brennan blows out his candles on a cake someone smuggled in, and the whole bar sings happy birthday off-key. He turns red, and I clap along and feel almost normal.
Priya drags me onto the dance floor for one song, which she documents on her phone and which I will be making her delete tomorrow. "You're a terrible dancer," she yells over the music, grinning. "I love it."
"All my skills go to my brain, unfortunately."
She laughs and tries to teach me a move, something with the hips that I cannot make my body do. I try anyway, and she cheers. Brennan joins in, and for a minute, I'm actually having fun. Real fun. The music is loud, my feet are moving, I'm laughing at how terrible I am, and it feels good.
Then someone bumps into me from behind, his hands on my shoulders as he squeezes past. "Careful, excuse me." His voice is deep and smooth, and for a split second, it sounds exactly like Miguel's. I spin around. It's a stranger. Some guy in a blue shirt heading toward the bar.
I exhale, turn back around, then from the corner of my eye, I catch someone standing near the entrance. Tall, slicked-back hair, watching the room. My heart stops. I turn fully, and it's just a guy scanning for friends. Nobody I know. Nobody dangerous.
But now I'm paranoid. Every man who slightly resembles him in this bar could be him. Every voice that's too smooth, every figure at the edge of my vision. The music is still playing, people are still dancing, but I can't be here anymore.
I feel ridiculous. I feel tired. There are too many things going on in my life right now to just let loose and party.
I look around at the other residents laughing and doing shots, and I envy how simple it is for them to show up, have fun, and go home.
I can't remember the last time anything was that simple for me.
Priya notices. She leans in. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just crowded."
She looks at me for a second too long. She knows. She doesn't say it.
I try to get back into it. I stay for another song.
I clap when Brennan does his birthday toast, which is mostly just him thanking everyone for coming and then accidentally spilling his drink.
But the fun is gone. Every time someone walks too close, I tense.
Every time the door opens, my eyes go to it.
I keep searching faces, wondering if he's here, if someone's watching.
So I leave early. I tell Brennan I'm leaving and wish him a happy birthday one last time.
I tell Priya I have a headache. She doesn't believe me, I can see it in her face, but she lets me go.
She squeezes my hand and says, "Text me when you're home.
" I appreciate her for that. For knowing when to hold on and when to let go.
The night air feels better than the bar. I walk for a few blocks until the music fades and the streets are just streets again, and I keep walking until I find the café.
It's four blocks from the hospital, and I found it by accident a few weeks ago.
It's tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, and you'd miss it if you weren't looking.
The coffee is decent, but that's not why I come.
The chairs are these massive armchairs that practically swallow you when you sit down, the lighting is low, and there's never more than a dozen people here at any given time.
It feels hidden—safe. And right now, safe is the only thing I'm looking for.
I'm curled up in one of those armchairs with my hands around a warm mug, staring out the window, when the door opens, and Logan walks in.
He doesn't see me at first. He goes to the counter, orders, and while he's waiting, he pushes his glasses up and scans the room. His eyes land on me. They light up.
He gets his coffee and walks over. "Dr. Portland."
"Dr. Maxwell."
"Of all the cafés in this city."
"It's four blocks from the hospital, Logan. It's not exactly fate."
"I didn't say fate. But if you'd like to call it that, I won't argue."
I roll my eyes. It's late, and he's clearly had a long day, but he still manages to tease me.
He fights a smile. I look around the café. It's fuller than usual tonight, every table taken, and he's standing there with his coffee and nowhere to sit. I gesture to the empty armchair across from me.
"Sit down. Before you hover."
"I don't hover."
"You're hovering right now."
He sits. The armchair swallows him despite him being over six feet tall, and for a second, the head of trauma surgery looks vaguely ridiculous, sinking into an oversized cushion, his legs too long and his coffee cup too small in his hand. I press my lips together.
"Don't," he says.
"I'm not saying anything."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking you look very comfortable."
"I look like I'm being eaten by furniture."
I let the laugh out. His eyes stay on my face a second too long, but I don't look away.
We didn't have rounds together today. He was pulled into back-to-back meetings, administrative stuff, the side of running a surgical department that has nothing to do with actual surgery.
"What brings you out this late?" he asks.
"Brennan's birthday. Our group went out."
"Ah. I saw him earlier today. Didn't get to greet him." He pauses. "Although when he saw me in the hallway, he froze."
"Brennan is terrified of you."
"I'm aware."
"But he admires you. They all do, actually." I take a sip of my coffee. "Most of the residents are scared of you and in awe of you at the same time. It's kind of funny to watch."
He adjusts his glasses. "I know people think I'm too harsh."
"They don't think you're harsh. They respect you. There's a difference." I shrug. "And don't even get me started on what the girls say about you. It's honestly not that different from med school. Same effect, just a different environment."
He looks at me. "What do the girls say about me?"
"Absolutely not. I'm not feeding your ego."
"I don't have an ego."
"You have the biggest ego in this hospital, and you know it."
"That's not ego. We call that self-awareness."
I roll my eyes, and his mouth twitches at the corner. He's enjoying this. I can tell because he leans back slightly, relaxes into the armchair, and his gaze stays on me.
Then it drops to my arm. I'm wearing a jacket even though it's summer. I've been wearing jackets since Miguel left his mark.
"How's the arm?"
I pull the sleeve down instinctively, even though it's already covered. "Healing. The bruises are fading."
He nods and doesn't say anything for a moment, but he's looking at my sleeve like he wants to see through it. He's angry for me. And something about that, someone being furious that I'm hurt without making it about themselves, warms me more than the coffee.
"I want to ask if you're okay," he says. "But it feels like a stupid question."
"No, go ahead. Ask it. So that finally, Logan Maxwell asks a stupid question. I want to witness this historic moment."
He laughs. Low and surprised. I've spent weeks earning his almost-smiles, and a full laugh feels like winning something I didn't know I was competing for.
"Fine. Are you okay?"
"No." It comes out more honest than I planned.
I look at my coffee. "I'm not okay. I mean, I said I'd fight back, and I will.
I'm not running away anymore. But still, I'm scared.
The complaint, the investigation, it's everything he said he'd do, and I can't stop it.
Every true thing about my life makes me look guilty.
He paid for things, and he got me into the program.
I showed up out of nowhere with a gap and a story that sounds convenient.
" I pause. "On paper, I look exactly like what he says I am. "
"You're not what he says you are."
"The board doesn't know that."
"Then we make sure they do."
He says it like it's already decided. I look at him across the low table, and the warm café light softens everything, including his face. Underneath, I see the tension he carries in his shoulders. He looks tired. Not just from work.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
He scratches at his chin. "You're going to anyway."
"Why are you doing this? Helping me. You're someone with power, and if there's one thing I've learned about people with power, it's that they always have an out. You could walk away, leave me to fight this on my own, but you're not. You're helping me even with the risk."
He's quiet for a long time. Long enough that I think he's not going to answer.
Then he says, "Because the last time you disappeared from my life, I didn't do anything. I just let it happen." He turns his coffee cup on the table. "I don't want you facing this alone. What Cruz is doing is pathetic, and when I told you we'd stop him together, I meant it."
The café gets quieter. Or maybe it doesn't. Maybe it's just that everything else fades, and the only sound that matters is his voice and my heartbeat and the distance between them getting smaller.
"That's a terrible strategic decision," I say quietly. "Very un-Maxwell of you."
"I know. It's been bothering me."
"You should probably talk to someone about it."
"I'm talking to you."
I hold his gaze. He holds mine. And neither of us looks away. The moment stretches past professional, past friendly, past whatever we've been pretending this is. His eyes are greener than gray in this light, and I've never noticed how striking the green is before now.
I look down first, because someone has to.