21. Kristen
KRISTEN
I had a peaceful sleep again last night, the third one this week, and I'm starting to think maybe my body is finally learning that sleep doesn't have to be a battlefield.
It's my day off, so I'm up at seven, and I make breakfast. Actual breakfast. Eggs and toast and coffee at the table instead of standing at the counter inhaling a granola bar. The house is quiet in a good way. Sunlight sneaks in through the kitchen window, and the birds chirping outside warm me.
I check my phone and see a text from Priya.
Priya
I was looking for you this morning and forgot it's your day off.
I smile.
Kristen
Miss me already?
Priya
Well duh! But anyway, I won't bother you on your day off anymore. I'll keep all the gossip till you come back.
Kristen
You better. I want every detail.
Priya
Obviously. Now go enjoy your freedom. One of us should.
My smile doesn't disappear as I put the phone down.
It buzzes again.
My smile drops this time. It’s an email from the hospital.
RE: Formal Review — Dr. Kristen Portland
I open it.
Dear Dr. Portland,
Thank you for your patience during the scheduling process.
Due to the availability of all review committee members and board representatives, the formal hearing regarding the complaint filed against you has been scheduled for this Friday at 10:00 AM in Conference Room B.
All board members will be present. Please bring any supporting documentation you wish to submit for review.
You may also bring a representative or colleague to speak on your behalf.
If you have any questions regarding the process, please do not hesitate to reach out.
Best Regards,
Sandra Molina
Administrative Coordinator, Hospital Administration
Westlake Medical Center
I call Logan. He picks up on the first ring.
"I got the date," I say.
"When?"
"This Friday."
He's quiet for a beat. Then says, "It's time to finalize everything. Can you come over tonight?"
"I'll be there."
I look away from the deepening darkness outside his window to the case files spread across the dining table.
The whiteboard is back, propped against the wall, covered in his handwriting.
My legal pad is full of notes. The bank statements are tabbed.
Carmen's written statement is in a folder with her signature on the last page.
Tonight we're not building; we're sharpening.
We tighten every argument. We reorganize every piece of evidence in the order it'll be presented. We anticipate every question the board might ask and prepare answers. We go through it all again like we're going through a surgical plan: step by step, leaving nothing to chance.
I catch a weakness in how we've framed the financial dependency: the language is too passive, and makes it sound like I accepted it willingly. He reworks it.
"If there's a question I'm sure the board is going to ask, it's about the residency slot," he says. "How you got it. Whether you were qualified or if it was purely Miguel's influence. I know we've gone through this, but it needs to be watertight."
"I was qualified. My board scores were in the top percentile even after the gap. The gap was the only issue."
"Then lead with that. Scores first. Then the gap. Then Miguel's involvement. Don't let them frame it as him giving you something you didn't deserve. You earned the slot. He opened a door."
"And then used the door as a leash."
He looks at me. "That's the line. Use it at the hearing."
We go through the Carmen angle. How to introduce her testimony without it seeming like a personal attack on Miguel's character.
"The board will want to focus on your situation," Logan says. "Your complaint, your evidence. If we lead with Carmen, it looks like we're trying to assassinate his character instead of defending yours."
"But the pattern is the complaint. One woman making an accusation against a powerful CEO is a story. Two women describing the exact same system of control is evidence."
"I agree. But order matters. Lead with your timeline. Your dates, your documents, your texts. Let them see your truth first. Then bring Carmen in as corroboration."
"So she confirms the pattern after I've already established it."
"Exactly. Your story is the foundation. Carmen is proof that it's not an isolated incident."
"And the ward incident?"
"Security footage speaks for itself. A man entered a hospital ward, physically grabbed a resident in front of patients, and endangered an elderly post-surgical patient.
The footage shows him grabbing you. It shows Walter falling.
It shows me intervening." He adjusts his glasses.
"I didn't threaten anyone. I told a man who was assaulting my resident to let go. The footage will confirm that."
"You said you'd break his hand."
"I said I would if he didn't let go. There's a difference between a conditional statement and a threat."
"That's very lawyer-ly of you."
"I've been spending too much time with case files. It's rubbing off."
We work for another hour. When the case is as tight as it's going to get, I stand up, stretch, and look at the table.
The whiteboard with the timeline, the color-coded folders, the tabbed documents, the cross-referenced testimonies, Carmen's statement next to the security footage request, next to the financial records, next to Logan's annotated notes in his careful handwriting.
I start laughing.
Logan looks up from his chair. "Oh no. Don't go crazy now, Portland. Not when we have a hearing in three days."
"I'm not going crazy." I wave my hand at the table. "Or maybe I am. But look at this. Look at what we did."
He looks at the table. Then back at me. "What about it?"
"If we weren't doctors, we really could be lawyers.
Look at this case. Every detail accounted for, every argument mapped, every loophole covered.
We even found a corroborating witness. We built a timeline with financial documentation.
We have cross-referenced testimonies." I shake my head.
"We spent years competing against each other, and now, the first time we actually put both our brains on the same side?
" I gesture at the table again. "This. This is what happens. "
He leans back, then adjusts his glasses. "We are annoyingly good together."
"We're terrifying together. Miguel has no idea what's coming."
"You sound excited."
"I am excited," I say, and I realize I mean it. "I've been scared of this hearing for weeks. Dreading it, losing sleep over it, but right now, looking at this table, I'm not scared anymore. I'm actually looking forward to it." I pause. "So yes, maybe I am going a little crazy."
"I'd argue you've always been a little crazy."
"And I'd argue you liked that about me."
He doesn't deny it. He just looks at me with that quiet expression, and his eyes say everything. I hold his gaze, and I think, we did this. Together. And on Friday, we're going to finish it.
"Thank you," I say. "For everything." And everything means a lot. For helping me build this case. For finding Carmen. For sitting through four hours of me going through the worst years of my life and never once looking at me like I was a victim. "You didn't have to do any of this."
"You don't need to thank me."
"I want to. Let me."
He stands, then comes around the table until we're a few feet apart in his quiet apartment with the case files closed and the work done. There's nothing left to prepare. Nothing left to prove. Not tonight.
"You're going to be incredible in there," he says.
"You're just saying that because I pepper-sprayed you and you're afraid of me now."
He takes a step toward me. I take one toward him. My whole body is ringing.
He's looking at me. His glasses are off, left on the table somewhere, and without them, his gaze is direct and focused and warm enough that I can feel it on my skin.
"Kristen, I—"
I pull him in and kiss him. Because whatever he was about to say, I already know. And I'd rather show him than let him finish the sentence.
This time is different from the cabin. The cabin was a rush. This, I want slowly.
His hands slide down my sides, and I can feel the warmth of his palms through my shirt.
I pull at his collar, and he lets me unbutton his shirt, one by one, while his mouth moves along my jaw.
His lips taste like coffee and something sweeter, and when I push the shirt off his shoulders, I press my mouth to his neck, and his breath catches.
He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around him. He carries me down the hall, his mouth on mine, and my back hits the doorframe on the way in.
"Ow."
He pulls back. "Sorry. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Keep going."
He laughs, low, against my mouth. "Yes, ma'am."
Then we're in his room, and he sets me on the edge of the bed.
He kneels, looks up at me, his hands on my knees.
This image. Logan Maxwell on his knees, looking up at me with those eyes. I don't think I'll ever recover from it.
"What are you doing?" I whisper, the words barely making it past the thick lump in my throat.
"Taking my time," he says, his voice a low, gravelly anchor in the quiet room. He doesn't look away, his gaze holding mine.
It's what I want—slow—but I hear myself saying, "Don't take too much." My fingers tremble where they bunch the fabric of the bedspread.
A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Impatient, are we?" He moves, his palms warm against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, dragging a trail of fire upward that makes my breath hitch.
"Just a little," I manage.
He leans up and lifts my shirt over my head in one smooth motion, his eyes dark, heavy with a hunger that makes me shiver despite the heat radiating off him.
When he kisses the hollow of my collarbone, the pressure is slow and agonizingly thorough.
He maps the curve of my ribs with his fingertips, his touch so careful I feel like I might shatter under it.
He moves lower, pressing his lips to my stomach, then the sharp bone of my hip, his breath a hot, ragged ghost against my skin.
Every place he touches feels branded. When he slips my jeans away, his hands linger, his thumbs tracing the line of my thigh until I'm dizzy.
He refuses to rush, taking his time on every spot, savoring the way I arch into him, the way my nails dig into the sheets as I try to breathe through the slow, steady burn of his attention.
The patience of this man—the way he systematically dismantles my composure, millimeter by millimeter—is going to kill me.
"Logan." His name comes out breathless. "You're being very thorough."
"I'm always thorough." His mouth moves lower. His breath is warm against my skin. "You should know that about me by now."
I pull him back up to me because I need his mouth on mine. I need his weight. I kiss him deeply. His hands find my hips, and he presses into me, and I can feel all of him, and I make a sound against his mouth that I would be embarrassed about if I could think straight.
He groans. Low. The vibration of it goes through my whole body.
"You're amazing," he says against my ear. His voice is rough, unraveled. And hearing Logan Maxwell unraveled because of me is doing something to my brain that I never want to recover from.
When he sinks into me, it's slow. He moves with me, not ahead of me.
His forehead drops to mine, his fingers lacing through mine, pressing them into the pillow above my head.
I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, fast, matching mine.
His breathing is ragged in my ear, and every sound he makes tells me more than words.
"Look at me," he says.
I open my eyes. He's right there. Close enough that I can see the green in his gray eyes. And he looks at me while we move together. I don't look away. I can't. I don't want to. I want him to see everything on my face because I'm done hiding from this man.
His rhythm changes. Deepens. My fingers tighten around his.
My back arches, his free hand slides beneath me, pulling me closer, and I can feel everything building, this slow heat that's been climbing since he kissed me in the living room, since he looked at me across that table, since the first day he called out to me in a hospital hallway.
"Logan." His name breaks on my lips.
He presses his forehead to mine. "I know. I'm right here."
And I let go. My whole body tightens around him, and he follows right after. I hear my name on his lips, rough, unsteady, and I feel him shudder against me. His grip on my hand tightens. His breathing stops for a second. Then he exhales, long and slow, his face buried in my neck.
We stay like that for a while. His weight on me, his breath warm on my skin. Neither of us moving, neither of us wanting to.
Then he pulls me into him. My head finds his chest and his arm wraps around me. The city glows through the window. His fingers trace slow circles on my shoulder. I can hear his heartbeat under my ear, slowing down. I match my breathing to it.
The quiet of the room feels heavy, but it is a good kind of weight. The best kind.
"You know," I say, tracing the faint outline of the scar on his chest, "I don't think we can ignore or deny what we have anymore."
Logan shifts, his hand sliding up to cup the back of my head. His thumb traces my hairline. "I haven't been trying to deny it. I've been trying to respect it."
I nod, pressing my face deeper into the warmth of his chest. "I know. And I want that, too. I just…I want to finish this hearing first. I don't want any baggage, any complications, before I enter a new relationship with you."
His arm tightens around me, pulling me flush against his side. The pressure is firm, a silent promise of support. "I understand," he says, his voice rough.
"Three days," I say.
"Are you nervous?"
"No." I smile against his skin, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath me. "I think I'm going to enjoy it."
"That's my girl."
I press my face into him so he can't see my expression. It's giving away everything right now, and the vulnerability scares me. His arm tightens again, a silent confirmation that he isn't going anywhere. Neither of us says anything else. There's no need for more words.
I close my eyes and wish this moment could last just a little longer.