And Marianne had watched the whole thing, her expression unreadable, her pen moving across her clipboard with infuriating steadiness.
Afterward, when the trauma bay had cleared and the patients were stabilized, Isla stood at the nurses' station trying to force her hands to stop shaking. The adrenaline crash was hitting her hard, compounded by the frustration of knowing that she could have done better if she hadn't been hamstrung by bureaucratic requirements.
"You okay?" Tamsin appeared beside her, her voice low and concerned.
"Fine."
"You don't look fine." Tamsin glanced toward the observation window where Marianne had been standing. "You and Ms. Cole seemed... tense today."
"She's the woman who helped restrict my practice. Tension is expected."
"That's not the kind of tension I meant." Tamsin's dark eyes were knowing, too knowing. "The way you two were looking at each other during that response... that wasn't professional animosity, Isla."
Isla felt her heart stutter. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Tamsin's voice dropped even lower. "I'm not going to ask questions. Whatever is or isn't happening between you two is none of my business. But if you think nobody noticed the way the air changed when she walked in, you're fooling yourself."
The observation hit Isla like cold water. She had been so focused on her own awareness of Marianne that she hadn't considered how visible their chemistry might be to others.
"There's nothing to notice."
"If you say so." Tamsin's expression suggested she didn't believe a word of it. "Just be careful. This hospital runs on gossip, and the last thing you need right now is another scandal."
She walked away before Isla could respond, leaving her alone with the weight of her words.
Isla stood at the nurses' station, her mind racing. Tamsin was right. The chemistry between her and Marianne was visible. Palpable. If someone as discreet as Tamsin had noticed, others might have too.
This was dangerous. More dangerous than she had realized.
But even knowing that, even understanding the risks, Isla couldn't make herself regret what had happened in the locker room. Couldn't make herself wish that they had kept their distance, maintained their professional boundaries, stayed on opposite sides of the conflict that defined their relationship.
What she felt for Marianne wasn't going to go away just because it was inconvenient. The only question was whether they were going to continue pretending otherwise.
The day dragged on. More patients, more consultations, more documentation. Isla worked through it all with grim determination, refusing to let her personal complications affect her performance. But by the time her shift ended, she was exhausted in ways that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
She went home to her apartment, a modest two-bedroom in a building that valued privacy over luxury. The space was functional rather than beautiful, decorated in neutral tones with furniture chosen for comfort rather than style. She had lived here for three years and still hadn't put anything on the walls.
She showered, standing under water as hot as she could bear, letting it pound against the tension in her shoulders. The steam carried the eucalyptus scent of her shampoo, familiar and grounding. Changed into soft clothes. Poured herself a whiskey she didn't really want, the sharp burn of it against her throatdoing nothing to quiet her racing thoughts, and stood at the window watching the Los Angeles skyline glitter in the darkness.
Her phone sat silent on the kitchen counter. She hadn't given Marianne her number. They hadn't exchanged any contact information, hadn't made any plans to see each other again. The locker room encounter existed in a bubble, disconnected from the rest of their lives.
That was probably for the best. That was probably exactly how it should be.
But standing in her empty apartment, watching the city lights dance across the darkness, Isla couldn't stop wishing that her phone would ring.
The knock at her door came at eleven-forty-three.
Isla knew who it was before she opened it. Knew it with a certainty that felt like fate, or maybe just inevitability.
Marianne stood in the hallway, still wearing the suit she had worn to work, her expression a careful mask of professional composure that fooled neither of them.
"I shouldn't be here." Her voice was quiet. Strained.
"No," Isla agreed. "You shouldn't."
Neither of them moved.
"I told myself I wouldn't come." Marianne's hands were clasped in front of her, so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. "I told myself that what happened was a mistake, that we needed to put it behind us, that continuing down this path would destroy us both."
