Page 29 of Crossing the Line (Phoenix Ridge Medical #6)
CARMEN
C armen's pen hovered over Mrs. Kovacheva’s post-operative report, the same sentence unfinished for the third time in twenty minutes.
Her concentration had been fractured since discovering Harper's message after finishing a valve replacement three hours ago.
The text had been waiting when she'd finally checked her phone in the locker room, and its contents had been occupying her thoughts ever since.
“I know we agreed to keep things professional during work hours, but I'd like to talk when you have time. About us and what we're building together. Let me know when works for you.”
It was different from their usual exchanges. More direct. Harper had acknowledged their relationship explicitly, used the word "us" without deflection, and asked for something Carmen wasn't sure she was ready to give: a real conversation about their future.
Carmen closed the patient file with more force than was necessary and pushed back from her office desk.
The surgical wing was quieter during night shift, with only essential staff managing post-operative patients and emergency cases.
She'd deliberately stayed late to avoid the daytime bustle, but solitude wasn't providing the clarity she'd hoped for.
Her response to Harper had been immediate, almost involuntary: “ Tomorrow evening? My place?” But now, twelve hours later, Carmen was second-guessing everything about that invitation.
Her townhouse was their private space where professional boundaries dissolved and she could be honest about her feelings.
It was also where they'd agreed to their current arrangement, and Harper was clearly planning to challenge that.
Carmen gathered her things and made her way through the hospital corridors, but instead of heading to the parking garage, she found herself climbing the service stairs toward the building's roof access.
The rooftop garden had been her refuge during residency, a small oasis where she could think without the constant demands of medical education.
Now, fifteen years later, she still sought it out when hospital walls felt too confining.
The evening air hit her face like relief as she stepped onto the rooftop.
Phoenix Ridge spread below her in a carpet of lights, the harbor stretching toward darkness punctuated by the lighthouse beam sweeping across the water.
The garden itself was modest—raised beds with hardy perennials, a few benches positioned to take advantage of the view, solar lights creating pools of warmth along the walkways.
Carmen settled on the bench facing the harbor and pulled out her phone, reading Harper's message again.
The professional politeness was still there, but underneath lay something new: expectation.
Harper wasn't asking for permission or apologizing for wanting more.
She was stating her needs and assuming Carmen would want to address them.
The shift should have alarmed Carmen's protective instincts.
Instead, it sent heat spiraling through her chest in ways that had nothing to do with the evening air.
Harper was becoming the confident woman Carmen had glimpsed during their first night at Lavender's—direct, unafraid to ask for what she wanted, secure in her own worth.
The problem was that what Harper wanted might be more than Carmen could safely give.
Carmen's phone buzzed with a text from Julia: “Heard you're still at the hospital. Everything okay?”
Carmen stared at the message without responding.
Julia had been asking variations of the same question for days, noting Carmen's distraction and increasing isolation.
But how could Carmen explain that she was falling in love with someone she was supposed to supervise?
That every professional interaction felt like betrayal of something precious?
That she was terrified of wanting something so much that losing it might destroy her?
She exited out of Julia's message and opened Harper's again, studying the words for clues about what tomorrow's conversation might bring.
Harper had said "about us, about what we're building together," which suggested she saw their relationship as something with potential rather than just a complicated situation to manage.
But building required foundation, planning, and commitment to something beyond the careful boundaries they'd established.
Carmen looked out over Phoenix Ridge's lights, many of them homes where couples lived openly, planned futures together, and made decisions as partners rather than secrets.
She'd convinced herself that professional discretion was protection, but sitting alone on the rooftop while Harper presumably prepared to ask for more, Carmen wondered if she'd been protecting herself right out of the best thing that had happened to her in years.
A harbor fog was beginning to form on the horizon, promising the kind of thick white cover that would wrap the city in intimate silence. Perfect weather for the kind of vulnerability that could change everything.
Carmen's hands were steady as she typed her response to Julia: “Just thinking. I’m leaving soon.”
But she made no move to leave the rooftop garden. Tomorrow evening felt both too soon and not soon enough, and Carmen found herself hoping that whatever Harper planned to say, it would be brave enough for both of them.
Because sitting under the stars with the fog rolling in and her phone full of Harper's increasingly confident words, Carmen was beginning to suspect that Harper had found something Carmen had lost months ago: the courage to demand more from love than just the safety of hiding.
Carmen heard the rooftop access door open behind her, the soft scrape of metal against concrete cutting through the evening quiet. Her shoulders tensed involuntarily, a sharp breath catching in her throat before she turned to see who had discovered her refuge.
Harper stood in the doorway, still wearing scrubs from her late shift, her hair slightly mussed from what had probably been a long day in surgery.
She looked uncertain for a moment, as if she hadn't expected to find anyone up here, but when her eyes met Carmen's, something shifted in her expression.
"I saw your car in the parking garage," Harper said, stepping onto the rooftop and letting the door close behind her. "I thought you might have gone home hours ago."
Carmen's pulse quickened at the sound of Harper's voice, lower and more intimate than it ever was during hospital hours.
"I needed to think." The words came out rougher than she intended, and Carmen swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in her throat.
"About tomorrow. About what you want to discuss. "
Harper moved closer, her footsteps soft on the garden pathways. The stars cast her face in warm shadows, highlighting the determined set of her jaw that Carmen had learned to recognize when Harper was about to challenge something important.
"I didn't mean to ambush you," Harper said, settling onto the bench beside Carmen without asking permission. She was close enough that Carmen could smell the faint scent of hospital antiseptic mixed with the floral perfume Harper wore beneath her scrubs. "But when I saw your car..."
"You wanted to talk now." Carmen's hands trembled slightly as she set her phone aside, the small device suddenly feeling too heavy for her grip. "Before tomorrow."
"I wanted to see you," Harper corrected, and the simple honesty in her voice made Carmen's chest constrict with something that felt dangerously close to panic. "Without having to pretend we're nothing more than attending and intern. Without having to calculate every word and gesture."
Carmen stared out at the harbor, watching fog creep closer to shore like a physical manifestation of the suffocating feeling building behind her ribs. "Harper, whatever you're planning to say tomorrow?—"
"I'm not planning anything," Harper interrupted, her voice carrying a confidence that made Carmen's stomach flutter with nerves. "I'm just going to be honest about what I need and what we both deserve."
The word "deserve" hit Carmen like a physical blow. Her breath caught, and she felt heat flood her cheeks despite the cooling evening air. Harper wasn't asking for permission or apologizing for wanting more. She was stating expectations, assuming Carmen would want to meet them.
"You texted me," Carmen said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was different from our usual messages."
"Because this is different." Harper turned to face her fully, and Carmen could see the gold flecks in her dark eyes even in the dim lighting. "We're different. Or at least, I am."
Carmen's throat felt like it was closing, making each word an effort. "What's changed?"
Harper was quiet for a moment, studying Carmen's face with an intensity that made her want to look away. But she couldn't. Harper's gaze held her like gravity, inescapable and absolute.
"I realized that hiding from everyone else means I'm hiding from myself too," Harper said finally. "And I'm tired of disappearing just because loving you feels complicated."
The confession sent electricity through Carmen's nervous system, making her hands shake and her heart hammer against her ribs so hard she wondered if Harper could hear it in the quiet evening air. Harper had said it so simply, so directly: loving you.
"The professional complications—" Carmen started, but Harper's hand found hers, warm fingers interlacing with cold ones.
"Are real," Harper agreed. "But so is this. So are we. And I'm not willing to pretend otherwise anymore."
Carmen looked down at their joined hands, Harper's thumb tracing gentle circles across her knuckles. The touch should have been comforting, but instead it made the pressure in her chest intensify until breathing felt like work.