"I want to stop billing hours trying to prove you're not what you appear to be."
I nod and say "Fine." I don't know when we stopped being adversaries. Maybe just now, or maybe a few weeks ago when I told Hudson his treatment plan didn't hold up and Kent didn't say a word against me.
I stand up to leave. My bag catches on the chair and Kent reaches forward to unhook the strap, his hand brushing the outside of my arm. Goosebumps run up my skin before I can do anything about it.
Shit.
In the corridor I press the heel of my hand against my chest because my heart is racing and I need a second to get my shit together. I kissed Jude this morning and now I have goosebumps from his lawyer's hand on my arm and I don't know what to do with either of those things yet.
Rounds take the rest of the afternoon. Ward B, the medication dispensary, admin for a chart review, then Ward C. The whole time I'm thinking about Jude's mouth on mine, the way his hand found the back of my neck and held me there. I kissed him back.
I'm back in Ward C for the afternoon round, eyes going straight to the far checkpoint to see if Gage is on shift.
He's there. Arms crossed, radio clipped to his belt, watching the corridor the way he watches everything—still, steady, not missing a thing. When he sees me, his posture changes. Shoulders come down. Chin lifts. If you didn't know what to look for you'd miss it.
"Afternoon," Gage says when I reach the checkpoint.
"Hey." I badge in and the light goes green. He reaches past me to hold the heavy door and his hand lands at the small of my back, firm and warm through the fabric of my shirt.
"Watch the step."
There's a raised lip where the corridor meets the secure wing threshold, a half-inch of uneven concrete the maintenance team has been meaning to fix since before I started. I've tripped on it twice and he's seen it both times, so the hand on my back makes sense and my face getting warm doesn't.
His voice is close to my ear. I keep my eyes forward.
"Thanks," I say. My voice sounds normal. He holds the door open, and his hand stays on my back one second longer than the step requires.
Then it's gone. He's back at his post with his arms folded and his face neutral, and I keep walking.
The drive home is twenty minutes of cold air through the cracked window. I drop my bag by the door, kick my shoes off, and stand in my kitchen for a minute with my hands on the counter.
The fridge has leftover pasta and half a bag of spinach that's going limp. I eat the pasta cold and lean against the counter while the kettle boils. My phone buzzes while I'm pouring. Mishel.
Her face fills the screen the second I answer. Dark curly hair. Gold hoops. Red lipstick. She's on her couch with a glass of wine balanced on her knee, and her eyes narrow the instant she sees me.
"You sound weird," she says.
"I haven't said anything yet."
She squints at me through the phone. "You look different. Who is he?"
"What makes you think there's a he?"
"Because I've known you since we were nine and the only time you make that face is when someone's or something's gotten under your skin." She points at the screen. "You made it when Daniel Foster kissed you behind the gym in eighth grade. You made it when you passed your masters. You're making it now." Her finger jabs closer to the camera. "Spill."
I put the kettle down. Mishel is the one person in the world I don't pretend with. She sat with me in the hospital after the accident and read my scan results out loud because I couldn't focus on the words. She calls me on my shit and loves me anyway.
"It's complicated," I say.
"It's always complicated with you. Uncomplicate it."
"There might be more than one 'he.'"
She stops with the wine glass halfway to her mouth. Her eyes go wide and the glass lowers and she stares at me for three full seconds without blinking.
"...Hope."
"I know."
