"The accident. Seven years ago, wasn't it?" His head tilts, curious and clinical. "Traumatic brain injury. Documented amygdala damage. I found the neurological reports quite interesting."
The corridor narrows around us. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and I can hear my own heartbeat.
"Those reports are confidential."
"Medical records shared with institutional employers for accommodation purposes aren't confidential, Ms. Turner. They're part of your professional file." He takes a step closer. "I'm not raising this to be cruel. I'm raising it because I'm concerned. A woman with documented impairment in threat assessment, working in a maximum security psychiatric facility, developing an... attachment... to a patient with Mr. Chadwick's history? You must see how that looks."
I should be afraid. The part of me that read enough psychology textbooks knows what my brain is supposed to do in a situation where a man with power over my career is standing too close and using my medical records against me.
But the fear doesn't come.
Instead, I feel my spine straighten. My chin lift.
"Dr. Hudson." My voice is steady. "You've just summarized my entire file. You've read my medical records, my academic history, my previous placement evaluations. You know exactly who I am and what I'm capable of."
"That's precisely my concern—"
"And yet." I hold his gaze. "In thirteen weeks of monitoring, I've documented forty-seven protocol violations, eighteen instances of backdated authorization, and a sedation spiral that would make any medical licensing board very uncomfortable. My reports are thorough, timestamped, and cross-referenced. Every observation I've made is supported by facility records that your own staff generated."
His smile flickers.
"So you can assess my conduct all you want." I shift the files in my arms. "But when this is over, one of us is going to have a lot of explaining to do. And I don't think it's going to be me."
I step around him before he can respond.
My hands don't shake until I'm in the parking lot.
He's been different since the day room. Since he stood by the door and watched and said nothing, gave us time, gave us space. And then he took me to a diner forty minutes outside the city and kissed me in the parking lot hard enough that I had to hold onto his jacket to stay upright, and the next morning he went right back to keeping his distance. I see him in the corridors now and there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before, a careful distance that costs him more than he lets on.
I get in my car and sit there for a long time, thinking about protection that never asks to be noticed.
Sunday at Mishel's apartment smells like wine and expensive cheese.
She's assembled what she calls "a spread"—brie and Manchego and something with herbs that cost more than my grocery budget—and there are throw pillows on every surface because Mishel believes that comfort is an aesthetic choice.
"Okay." She tucks her legs under her on the couch, wine glass balanced on her knee. "Start from the beginning."
"There is no beginning. I'm fine."
"Babe." Her eyes narrow. "You've canceled three brunches, you're screening my calls, and when I drove by your apartment last week your lights were on at 2 a.m. You are not fine. You're in crisis mode and you're shutting me out."
I take a long sip of wine. The cheese plate is beautiful and I haven't touched it.
"Work is... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
I think about everything I can't say. The day room. His fingers inside me. The kiss that made me forget cameras exist. Gage's mouth on mine in a parking lot, his hand on my neck, and the way he pulled back like it cost him something he couldn't name. The letter on my kitchen counter and Hudson's gray eyes in the corridor.
"They're building a case against me. The facility. They think I've gotten too close to one of the patients."
"Have you?"
The question hangs there. Mishel's face is open, curious, without judgment. She's asked me about boys since we were twelve years old, and she's never once made me feel bad about an answer.
"Yes," I say.
She nods slowly. Sips her wine. "Okay. When you say close, do you mean like... close close? Like, feelings close?"
