13. Kristen #2
We stay another hour. The conversation drifts between light and heavy, work and not-work. He tells me about Mitchell giving him a hard time, and I tell him about Priya filming me dancing, to which he says he needs to see that footage immediately, and I tell him over my dead body.
"I'll ask Dr. Anand myself."
"She wouldn't dare."
"I'm her department head. She'll fold in seconds."
"You don't know Priya. She's loyal to me."
"Everyone has a price. I'll offer her a good case."
"You're bribing residents now?"
"If I must."
"Absolutely not." I'm smiling, and I can't stop. He's watching me smile, and there's something in his expression that makes my stomach flip.
Somehow our conversation moves to Avengers versus Justice League. He mentions he saw one of the newer DC movies on a flight last week, and I make the mistake of asking if it was any good.
"It was decent," he says.
"Decent. That's the best DC can do. Decent."
He looks at me. "Don't tell me you're a Marvel person."
"I'm absolutely a Marvel person. And the fact that you're not explains a lot about you."
"What does that explain, exactly?"
"You like DC because they take themselves too seriously. Dark, brooding, dramatic. Sound familiar?"
"I like DC because the writing is better."
"The writing is not better. They had Superman and Batman in the same movie and still couldn't make it work. Marvel built an entire universe out of a guy in an iron suit and a raccoon with a gun. That's talent."
"A raccoon with a gun is not a selling point, Portland. You're only thinking movies, but overall, DC is much better."
"No, it isn't."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it—" I stop. Because somewhere during this argument, we've both leaned forward. Our faces are closer than they were five minutes ago, and our hands are on the table between us, almost touching. His pinky is right beside my thumb. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us pulls back. We're just looking at each other, and the argument is gone, the café is gone, to leave just this. His eyes on mine, my hand next to his.
"Excuse me." The waiter appears beside our table. "We're closing up in a few minutes."
We both lean back. I pull my hand into my lap. He picks up his coffee cup like he suddenly remembers he has one.
"I'll drive you home," he says. "It's late."
I don't argue. I want ten more minutes with him in a quiet car where nobody's watching and nothing has to be complicated.
The drive is short. He pulls up to my house, and we sit there for a moment in the dark. The streetlight catches the edge of his glasses, and the quiet in the car feels different from the quiet in the café. This is closer. More personal. I'm aware of every sound. His breathing, mine, the engine.
He turns to look at me and doesn't say anything for a second. Just looks. And I look back. And suddenly we're doing that thing again where neither of us looks away, and the silence says more than words would.
"Thank you," I finally say. "For tonight. For showing up. Even if it was an accident."
"Best accident I've had in a while," he whispers. "Maybe second best. After the pepper spray."
I laugh and shove his arm, but he catches my hand before I pull it back. He holds it and looks at me, and my breath hitches.
He's close. Closer than the café, closer than the break room.
I can see every detail of his face. The line of his jaw, the way his glasses have slipped down his nose, and he hasn't pushed them up.
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second, then comes back up.
Yet he doesn't move. He's waiting. Giving me the choice.
I think about all the reasons I should say goodnight and go inside. The complaint, the investigation, the fact that he's my attending, and we're both under review, and if anyone sees this, it would be the end of both our careers.
And then I think about the man sitting next to me who's always been there for me, and whose lips look a little lonely.
I stop thinking.
I lean in, and my hand finds the side of his face.
I press my mouth to his, and for about three seconds, it's the best thing I've felt in years.
His lips are warm and still, and then they start to move against mine, slowly.
His hand comes up to my jaw, gentle, like I'm something he doesn't want to break.
Then my brain catches up.
I pull back. Fast. Like I've touched something hot. He's looking at me with his eyes soft and slightly dazed, and his glasses crooked from where my hand was on his face.
"I…sorry. I don't…um." I am not forming words. The heat climbs my neck and spreads across my face. My brain goes completely offline. "Good night."
I grab the door handle, practically fall out of the car, and walk to my front door so fast I nearly trip on the steps. I don't look back. I can't look back. I fumble with my keys, jump inside, shut the door, and lean against it.
My heart is pounding, my face is on fire, my lips are still tingling, and I press the back of my hand against my mouth as if to prove I really just did that.
I just kissed Logan Maxwell.
He probably thinks I've lost my mind. I practically threw myself at him and then ran away. Who does that? Who kisses someone and then says "um, good night" and nearly falls out of a car? Me, apparently. As if I haven't embarrassed myself enough in front of him already.
But the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that even with my pulse going crazy and my face burning, every single part of me wants to go back outside and do it again.