Chapter 6: Professional Distance
The cafetorium was a study in controlled chaos. A low drone of overlapping conversations and clattering trays fought with the omnipresent, sour-sweet tang of antiseptic and tinned stew. You found the booth in the corner, the vinyl squeaking in protest as you sat. From here, you could watch the door.
He entered five minutes later, scanning the room. His gaze caught yours. For a fraction of a second, something raw and unguarded flashed in his blue eyes, the same look from when he’d held you down in the morning light. Then it shuttered. He walked over with the controlled, economical stride of a man used to navigating crowded spaces.
He set down a grey plastic tray holding a black coffee and an untouched apple. He shrugged out of his white coat, draping it over the bench, and slid in across from you. He opened a tablet, instantly absorbed in the glow of patient charts. He didn’t greet you.
“You didn’t come over,” you said, your voice sounding small against the cafeteria’s hum.
“Double shift,” he replied, not looking up. He tapped the screen, scrolling. “Multiple MVA roll-in. No time.”
He took a sip of coffee, his jaw tight. You remembered the feel of that jaw under your fingertips. The silence stretched, filled by the scrape of a chair at the next table and a burst of weary laughter from a group of nurses.
You reached across, your fingers brushing the bare skin of his wrist where his scrubs sleeve ended.He froze. The surgical pen in his hand stopped its meticulous notation.
“Ethan.”
He slowly put the pen down. He still didn’t look at you. He stared at a point just past your shoulder, his expression as composed and unreadable as a statue. “Last night,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, devoid of its usual warmth. “This morning. They shouldn’t have happened.”
The words were a physical blow, sucking the air from your lungs. “What?”
“It was… unprofessional. A lapse.” He finally met your eyes. The blue was cold, Arctic. “I was exhausted, you were there, it was convenient. It clouded my judgment.”
“‘Convenient’?” The word tasted like ash. “You listened to my heartbeat with your stethoscope. You called me perfect.”
“A poor choice of words in a moment of residual… physicality.” He picked up the pen again, a clear dismissal. “I think it’s best if we maintain a professional distance. For the sake of the working environment.”
He was walling himself off, brick by clinical brick. The man from last night, the one with the worshipful mouth and the possessive hands, was gone. In his place was Dr. Hayes, all detached analysis. The contrast was dizzying, cruel. You wanted to throw the apple at his head. You wanted to cry.
“Bullshit,” you said, the force of the word surprising both of you.
His head snapped up, eyebrows raised. A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe respect—in his eyes. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“The hell it isn’t. You don’t get to rewire history because you got scared.” You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a fierce whisper. “You weren’t ‘clouded’ this morning. You were crystal clear.”
He opened his mouth, a retort poised on his lips, when a tray slammed down on the table beside him with a percussive clatter.
“God, what a day. I just spent three hours picking gravel out of a cyclist’s femur. Don’t ever buy a cheap helmet.” The voice was bright, sharp, and utterly commanding.
Clara Moreau slid into the booth next to Ethan, her auburn hair a vibrant splash against the drab surroundings. She unwrapped a protein bar with her teeth, her bright green eyes sweeping from Ethan’s frozen posture to your tense expression. She didn’t miss a thing. A surgeon’s eye for detail.
“Hayes,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “You look like you’re about to pronounce a DOA.Loosen up. And you,” she said, turning her direct gaze on you with a small, conspiratorial smile. “You’re the one who’s been occupying this one’s mental bandwidth for the last 48 hours. I’m Clara.”
“Shut up, Clara,” Ethan muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. The professional mask cracked, revealing pure, unadulterated exhaustion and irritation.
“I will not. You’ve been twitchy and distracted since yesterday afternoon, which, for you, is the emotional equivalent of a screaming meltdown.” She took a bite of her bar, chewing thoughtfully. She looked back at you. “He’s terrible at this, you know. The whole ‘human being’ thing. Thinks he has to quarantine his emotions like a contagion. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s also profoundly stupid.”
“Clara.” Ethan’s voice held a warning.“What? It’s true. You’re sitting here giving her the ‘it was a lapse in judgment’ speech, aren’t you?” Clara mimicked his baritone perfectly. “‘A moment of physicality.’ Please. I’ve seen your lapses. They involve leftover pizza and falling asleep on the couch. Not…” she gestured between the two of you with her protein bar, “…whatever this seismic event was.”
Ethan said nothing, staring daggers at his coffee.
Clara sighed, a sound of fond exasperation. “Look. Ethan’s a brilliant idiot. His heart’s in the right place, but his head gets in the way. Usually with a lot of medical terminology and emotional repression.” She leaned toward you, her tone softening from teasing to something genuinely kind. “Give him time. He’ll engineer his own torment, realize he’s being an ass, and hopefully apologize with some grand, awkward gesture. It’s his cycle.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Ethan growled.
“And you’re being an ass,” Clara confirmed cheerfully. She checked her watch and bolted upright. “Damn.Consult. Gotta run.” She squeezed Ethan’s shoulder. “Be less of a robot. And for God’s sake, eat something that didn’t come wrapped in plastic.” She winked at you and was gone, her white coat flapping behind her like a flag.
The vinyl seat released a long, complaining squeal as you stood up. Ethan’s head jerked toward you, his cold composure finally fracturing into something resembling alarm. “Where are you going?”
“Away from here,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady. The hurt was a sharp, hot stone lodged beneath your sternum, but Clara’s words had coated it in a clarifying layer of frost. “You’ve made your ‘professional distance’ perfectly clear.”
You gathered your trash—the untouched sandwich, the napkin—simply to give your hands a task. The mundane action felt defiant. He watched your movements, his surgeon’s eyes missing nothing: the slight tremor in your fingers, the rigid set of your shoulders.
“Wait,” he said, the command softer now, almost a question. He leaned forward, his large hands flat on the table. “Clara shouldn’t have—”
“Clara was the only one being honest.” You cut him off, not letting him finish. The memory of his stethoscope, cool on your skin after he’d been inside you, flashed with painful clarity. “You said ‘convenient.’ I’m choosing not to be convenient anymore.”
You didn’t look back as you walked away. You felt the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades, a tangible pressure following you past the steaming soup stations and the clattering checkout line. The electric doors slid open with a sigh, releasing you into the marginally quieter hallway. You didn’t slow down until you turned a corner, putting a wall of pale green tiles between you and the cafeteria.
Your next shift in the ER was a study in forced focus. Every time a set of double doors sighed open, your pulse skittered. You anticipated the sound of his voice, his height cutting through the controlled chaos. You preemptively took charts to quiet corners, volunteered for stocking in the supply room, and found a reason to review files in the ophthalmology wing—anywhere but the central hub where he might appear.
You were in the ambulance bay, taking a gulp of cool, diesel-tinged night air, when you saw him. He was across the tarmac, deep in conversation with a paramedic, gesturing toward a gurney. His profile was stark under the sodium lights, all sharp angles and focused intensity. As if sensing your gaze, he started to turn.
You ducked back inside, the heavy door closing with a final, pneumatic thud. The sound felt like punctuation. You leaned against the wall, the cool cement seeping through your scrubs. Your heart hammered, not from desire this time, but from a raw mix of anger and self-preservation. You wouldn’t give him the chance to dismiss you again.
For the rest of the week, you perfected the art of the tactical retreat. You memorized his rough schedule, the corridors he frequented. A glimpse of his dark hair or the straight line of his back in his white coat was your signal to alter course. You became a ghost in his periphery, present but untouchable, a silence where there had once been soft morning murmurs and the rustle of shared sheets.