Page 53 of Obeying

Last night happened.

My brain does several things at once, none of them helpful. So I lie there and stare at the ceiling, letting the short-circuit run its course. Then I look at him again. He's on his stomach, one arm still stretched toward me, his face half-buried in the pillow. His hair is a mess, and there's a mark on his shoulder that I'm fairly certain I put there. I should feel embarrassed about that, but I don't.

I let myself have this. Just for a minute. The sunlight through the windows, the cool air, the sound of nothing. This quiet warmth and the steady sound of him breathing beside me.

He wakes up annoyingly composed. Like a man who rolled out of a dream and straight into a magazine. His eyes open, he blinks once, sees me, and he smiles lazily. Meanwhile, I'm fairly certain my hair looks like I was in a fight with the pillow and the pillow won.

"Morning, Portland."

"Morning, Maxwell."

"How long have you been staring at me?"

"I was not staring at you. I was looking at the mountains. You happen to be in the way."

"I'm in the way of the mountains."

"Yes. You're blocking the view. Move."

He smiles. Of course, he doesn't move—the mountains are behind me. He just lies there and watches me. The morning light falls on him, and I really look at him. His hair is tousled, and he's got pillow creases on his cheek. He looks more human than I've ever seen him.

He makes breakfast. I sit at the counter watching him move around the kitchen barefoot in a t-shirt and sweatpants. I think about how completely surreal this is. A month ago, I was hiding behind a tablet during rounds. Now I'm sitting in his kitchen wearing his shirt, my legs bare, while he makes eggs like this is just what we do.

The cabin smells like butter, coffee, and fresh air from the open window. I sigh and keep watching him. The way he cracks eggs one-handed. The way he reaches for things without looking. The way his shoulders move under his shirt when he stretches to grab something from the top shelf.

I need to stop staring. But I can't.

He slides a plate in front of me. Eggs, toast, sliced fruit. I stare at it.

I pick up my fork, and the truth slips out. "Nobody's made me breakfast in a long time."

He doesn't say anything to that. He just pours me coffee and sets it down next to the plate. His hand brushes mine when he does, and he lets it linger before pulling away.

Over coffee, he leans against the counter and looks at me with that half-smile.

"You know, I've always known you had a thing for me."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "Excuse me? I think you're the one who's always been secretly into me, Maxwell. You proposed to me during graduation, remember?"

He smirks. "Maybe I was." He holds my gaze. "Maybe I am."

My face goes hot, and I hate it. I hate that his teasing still does this to me. Even after everything, even after last night, Logan Maxwell smirking at me still makes my brain stop working. I look away, drink my coffee, and pretend I'm unaffected. He absolutely knows I'm not.

"Shut up," I say.

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face is saying it."

"My face is just my face, Portland."

"Your face is insufferable."

He grins wider, and it's so rare and so good that I have to look away again because it's too early to feel this flustered.

He drives me home in the afternoon. The ride is comfortable and easy, the windows cracked. The highway unspools in front of us, and the mountains shrink in the rearview mirror. I watch them go with a pang I wasn't expecting.

We don't talk about what this means. We don't define it or label it or have the conversation that people are supposed to have after a night like that. Which, in a way, I'm thankful for.