Page 17 of Crossing the Line (Phoenix Ridge Medical #6)

Carmen moved to assist with the burn patient, but part of her attention remained on Harper's careful management of the firefighter.

She watched as Harper adjusted oxygen flow based on saturation readings, noted changes in cardiac rhythm, and communicated updates to the nursing staff with clear, professional language.

Twenty minutes later, as the immediate crisis was resolved and patients were stabilized for transfer to appropriate units, Carmen returned to check on Captain Walsh.

Harper had maintained perfect cardiac monitoring, documented every intervention, and established rapport with the conscious patient despite the traumatic circumstances.

"How is she?" Carmen asked, reviewing Harper's notes.

"Her cardiac rhythm has stabilized completely. Oxygen saturation is holding at ninety-eight percent. She's been asking about her team members."

Carmen looked at the cardiac monitor, seeing the steady, normal rhythm that indicated successful treatment. Harper's documentation was thorough and professional, noting every detail that would matter for continued care.

"Excellent work," Carmen said, meaning it completely. "Your cardiac assessment was spot-on."

"Thank you," Harper replied, but her attention remained focused on their patient rather than seeking praise. "Should we continue amiodarone monitoring through the night shift?"

"Yes. And I want hourly cardiac checks for the first six hours." Carmen paused, studying Harper's focused expression. "You handled that beautifully. Your understanding of cardiac trauma protocols is impressive."

A slight flush colored Harper's cheeks, but she maintained her professional demeanor. "I've been studying cardiac emergency medicine off-hours. It's fascinating how quickly the heart responds to appropriate intervention."

Carmen felt something shift in her chest, recognition mixing with respect in ways that made professional boundaries feel increasingly artificial. Harper hadn't just performed competently; she'd demonstrated natural instincts for cardiac surgery that couldn't be taught.

"Dr. Méndez?" Dr. Hassan approached with discharge paperwork. "Captain Walsh is ready for transfer to cardiac monitoring. Outstanding collaboration with your intern."

Carmen nodded, watching as Harper efficiently prepared their patient for transfer. Every movement was purposeful, every interaction professional. This wasn't the defensive young woman who'd challenged her on Monday. This was a surgeon who belonged in cardiac medicine.

As the trauma bay emptied and normal hospital routine resumed, Carmen watched Harper efficiently complete the patient transfer documentation.

The professional emergency was over, but the personal complications had become exponentially more complex because now Carmen had seen Harper's genuine surgical abilities, her natural compatibility with cardiac medicine, and her mature approach to patient care.

Now she had professional reasons to respect Harper that made personal distance infinitely more difficult to maintain.

The moment Captain Walsh's transfer was complete, Carmen escaped to the on-call room. The small space offered solitude from the controlled chaos of the hospital and, more importantly, from Harper's steady presence that had become both a comfort and torment.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, finally allowing her composed facade to crack. The narrow bed, basic sink, and institutional lighting created the kind of sterile environment where she usually found clarity. Tonight, it felt like a prison.

Carmen sat on the edge of the bed and ran her hands through her hair, disrupting the careful control she maintained even in crisis situations.

The afternoon replayed in her mind: Harper's intelligent questions during rounds, her seamless anticipation of equipment needs, the way she'd read cardiac rhythms with accuracy that had impressed even Dr. Hassan.

Professional admiration was manageable. Carmen could mentor talented interns without personal complications, maintaining appropriate boundaries while fostering their development.

But Harper wasn't just any talented intern.

She was the woman who'd made Carmen laugh in the darkness and made her feel alive in ways she'd forgotten were possible.

Carmen's phone buzzed with a text from Julia: “Heard about the fire response. You okay?”

She stared at the message without responding. How could she explain that she was drowning in professional respect for someone who'd already shattered her personal defenses? That watching Harper work had been like watching herself fall in love with cardiac surgery all over again?

The on-call room's silence amplified every sound: distant hospital pages, the hum of fluorescent lighting, and her own breathing that had become unsteady.

Carmen pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to impose order on the chaos in her chest, then moved to the small mirror above the sink.

Her reflection looked composed, exactly what people expected from Dr. Carmen Méndez, but her eyes held shadows that alluded to sleepless nights and emotional complications that had no surgical solution.

Carmen's hands gripped the sink edge as the full scope of her situation crystallized. She couldn't continue working closely with Harper without confronting the growing recognition that her feelings were deepening rather than fading.

Her phone buzzed again. Julia's follow-up text: “Seriously, are you okay? You've been different since Monday.”

Carmen deleted both messages without responding. Julia's concern was genuine, but Carmen couldn't explain the complexity of mentoring someone who'd already complicated every aspect of her carefully controlled life.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Carmen straightened, automatically restoring her professional composure before opening the door.

Harper stood in the hallway, holding a tablet with patient updates. Her expression was carefully neutral, respectful of Carmen's obvious need for space while maintaining the professional interaction their roles required.

"Captain Walsh's latest cardiac monitoring shows continued improvement," Harper said, offering the tablet. "No irregular rhythms for the past hour. The night shift is implementing the monitoring protocol you specified."

Carmen accepted the tablet, studying the cardiac strips that confirmed successful treatment.

"Excellent," Carmen said, though the word felt inadequate for Harper's exceptional work. "Your assessment and treatment recommendations were very good today."

"Thank you," Harper replied, but she didn't move to leave. "Dr. Méndez, I wanted to say that working with you today was...educational. I learned more about cardiac trauma in two hours than I did in weeks of textbook study."

The simple sincerity in Harper's voice made Carmen's chest tighten. "You have natural instincts for cardiac medicine," Carmen found herself saying.

Harper's eyes brightened with something that looked like hope. "I'd like to learn everything you're willing to teach me."

The words hung between them, layered with meaning that had nothing to do with medicine. Carmen felt her carefully maintained boundaries wavering as professional necessity and personal desire were becoming impossible to separate.

Harper stepped closer, and Carmen felt the careful distance she'd maintained all week dissolving like surgical sutures. The tablet in Carmen's hands became an inadequate barrier between them, patient data irrelevant compared to the way Harper was looking at her.

"Carmen," Harper said, her voice dropping to something more intimate than their professional setting should allow. "Can I ask you something?"

The use of her first name should have triggered Carmen's protective instincts. Instead, it sent warmth spiraling through her chest in ways that made professional boundaries feel like arbitrary constructions.

"What?" Carmen managed, though she wasn't sure she wanted to hear whatever Harper was brave enough to ask.

"Do you think about that night?" Harper's question was direct, carrying none of the careful deflection that had characterized their interactions since Monday's disaster. "Because I can't stop thinking about it."

Carmen's breath caught. They were standing in the middle of the on-call room where any colleague could walk in on them, ruining her professional reputation and crumbling everything she'd spent years building.

"Harper." Carmen's voice carried a hint of warning, but it lacked the authority she'd intended. "This isn't the time or place."

"Then when is?" Harper moved another step closer, close enough that Carmen could catch the faint scent of her floral perfume beneath the antiseptic smell that clung to everyone in the hospital.

"When will it be appropriate to talk about the fact that working with you today felt like the most natural thing in the world? "

The late evening shift change gave them a brief window of privacy, but it wouldn't last long. "We can't do this here."

"Then where?" Harper's persistence reminded Carmen of the woman who'd approached her at Lavender's with such confident directness. "Your office? Some other neutral place where we can pretend this is just a professional consultation?"

The frustration in Harper's voice was justified, Carmen realized. She'd been the one to create these impossible boundaries, demanding professional distance while working in forced proximity. She'd been the one to retreat every time their natural compatibility threatened to become something more.

"Harper, the complications?—"

"Are only complicated because we're making them complicated.

" Harper's hand reached out, her fingers barely brushing Carmen's wrist. The contact was light, easily dismissed as accidental, but it sent electricity through Carmen's entire body.

"What if we stopped fighting what's happening between us? "

Carmen looked down at Harper's hand, then up at her face.

In the fluorescent hospital lighting, Harper looked younger than her twenty-six years, but her eyes held fierce determination.

This wasn't the impulsive woman who'd lied about her identity.

This was someone who'd thought carefully about what she wanted and decided it was worth the risk.

"Your mother?—"

"Will have to understand that I'm an adult capable of making my own choices." Harper's voice was steady. "And you're not just her colleague. You're the woman I can't stop thinking about, despite every reason I should."

The room felt smaller, and Carmen was hyperaware of every sound: distant monitors, the hum of hospital equipment, her own heartbeat that had become audible in her ears. Harper was close enough to kiss, close enough that Carmen could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.

"This is dangerous," Carmen whispered, but she didn't step back.

"Good things usually are." Harper's hand moved from Carmen's wrist to her cheek, the touch warm and deliberate. "Carmen, I want to try. I want to see what this could be if we stopped running from it."

Carmen felt her last defenses crumbling under the weight of Harper's caress and the sincerity in her voice. This wasn't a mistake or a moment of weakness. This was a choice.

When Harper leaned in, Carmen didn't resist. The kiss was soft and tentative, nothing like the passionate encounter that had ignited everything between them. This was careful, respectful while acknowledging the impossibility of continuing to deny what existed between them.

Carmen's hand found Harper's waist, pulling her closer despite every instinct screaming warnings.

For a moment, nothing existed except the warmth of Harper's soft lips, the rightness of being close to her, and the recognition that this was something much deeper than attraction. Something worth fighting for.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway outside the on-call room shattered the moment. Carmen pulled back, panic flooding her system as reality crashed over her.

"We can't," Carmen said, stepping back and rebuilding her walls with visible effort. "This can't happen. Not here, not like this."

Harper's expression showed disappointment but not surprise. "Then how? Because pretending this doesn't exist isn't working for either of us."

Carmen looked at Harper and felt the familiar war between desire and self-preservation. But this time, desire was winning.

"I don't know," Carmen admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But you're right. We need to figure this out."

Harper's smile was small but genuine. "That's all I'm asking for. A chance to figure it out together."

As more footsteps echoed in the hallway, Harper stepped back to a more professional distance, her expression shifting to the careful neutrality they both wore like armor. But something had changed between them, a line crossed that couldn't be uncrossed.

Carmen knew she should regret the kiss, the admission, and the growing certainty that Harper was becoming more important than her career. Instead, she felt something that might have been relief.

The pretending was over. Whatever came next, they'd face it honestly. Together.