Page 31 of Obeying

Logan's hour turns into two. An emergency came in, a trauma case that pulled him into surgery, and I can see from the board that he's still in the OR. I could wait. Sit here in his office or the lounge and scroll through my phone until he's done.

But I stop myself.

No. I'm not doing that. The whole reason I left Miguel was to stop needing a man to function. I'm not going to replace one dependency with another. I can take the bus. I've been taking the bus for weeks. I'm fine.

I grab my bag and head out, then text him so he'll see it later.

The shift was strange today. Good, in some ways. After telling Logan everything in his office, I expected to feel exposed. Like I'd handed someone a weapon and was just waiting for them to use it. But it didn't feel like that. Still doesn't. It feels lighter. Like I set something down that I've been carrying alone for years and someone picked up half the weight.

The evening air is warm, and the sky is turning orange at the edges. I walk toward the bus stop and my head is full. What comes next, now that Logan knows everything, and I'm not the only one holding this? Instead of fear about what Miguel might do, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.

I feel ready. Whatever he throws at me, I'm not facing it alone anymore.

The bus stop is empty when I arrive. The sun is going down and I'm scrolling through my phone pretending I'm not scanning every car that passes. A couple walks by holding hands. A man in scrubs from the hospital crosses the street. Normal evening. Normal people going home.

Then a black sedan pulls up to the curb with tinted windows and its engine idling.

I know the car before I see his face. My body knows. My hand tightens around my phone and my stomach drops. I take a step back before the window rolls down, and Miguel is looking at me.

He's calm, patient, warm, even. The version of him that made me fall in love with him in the first place.

"Kristen." He says my name gently, like I'm something fragile he's trying not to break. "Can we talk? Just for a minute. Please."

"Are you serious?" My voice comes out harder than I expect. "After what you just did? You showed up at my hospital and grabbed me in front of my patients. I don't want to talk to you."

He nods, his face somber. "I know, I know. I acted rashly. That was on me. I'm here to apologize."

I should walk away. I should call someone. I should do anything other than stand here. But my feet won't move because this voice, this version of him, is the one I could never fight. The screaming, I can handle. The grabbing, I can brace for. But the softness, the patience, the man who sat across from me at charity dinners and made me feel like the most important person in the room…this is the version that kept me for three years.

"I'm not here to fight," he says. He gets out of the car slowly, hands visible, like he's proving he's harmless. "I just want to understand. You left without a word. You moved without telling me. I've been worried sick, Kris."

Kris. He's the only person who ever called me that, and hearing it now makes my stomach turn.

"I had to leave, Miguel."

"Because of one bad night?" He shakes his head, more sad than angry. "I lost my temper. I know that. I'm not proud of it. But one mistake and you throw away everything we built? Three years, Kris. I was there for you when no one else was."

I step back. I don't want to hear this again.

"I believed in you when nobody else did. You remember what it was like before me? No hospital would even look at your application. That gap on your résumé, the years you lost taking care of your father, I'm the one who made calls. I put my name on the line for you." His voice is soft, but every word sits like a boulder on my chest. "Without my help, where would you be right now?"

I don't answer because he's not wrong. Not about the facts. He did make those calls. He did get me into St. Andrew's. Every door that opened for me had his hand on it, and he knows it, and I know it, and that's the trap. That's always been the trap.

"Come home," he says. "We'll work through it. I'll do whatever you need. But don't throw this away over one mistake."

One mistake. The hole he punched through the door was one small mistake in his eyes. The time he threw my phone against the wall because I answered a call from a male colleague was a misunderstanding. The time he canceled my credit cards because I went to lunch without telling him was for my safety. Every single thing has a softer name when he tells it.

"And that doctor." His gaze sharpens. "The one who stepped in yesterday. Is that what this is about? Is he why you left?"

"No. That has nothing to do with it."

"Because it looked like something, Kris. It looked like he knew you. It looked like he was very eager to step in."

He's building a story. Assembling the version of events he'll tell anyone who asks. The ungrateful woman who used him for connections and left him for her boss.

"I don't care what you say or do. I'm not coming back, Miguel. It's over between us. It has been for a long time, you just won’t accept that."

He studies me. Then the warmth drains out of his face slowly, and for a second, I see him. The real him. Not the charity donor, not the concerned boyfriend, not the reasonable man just trying to talk. Miguel Cruz.