Because even with everything going right, I wanted nothing more than to be back in Ottawa. Back where I could corner Elliot and actuallytalkabout what happened Friday.Or more accurately…what didn’t happen. And what should happen next.
Now that I know she’s interested in me, I’ve decided I’m going to pursue it. Yes, it’s a risk. Yes, it could end in disaster. But as Noah oh-so-helpfully pointed out, it could also end with me being happy. And wouldn’t that be a novelty.
Obviously, I couldn’t have that conversation last week at her place, when she was fragile over Sam’s first sleepover. If I’d let her kiss me in that moment, she might’ve regretted it later—and I couldn’t live with that. Not when the stakes feel this high.
No. This is a clear-head decision. No blurred lines, no alcohol, no late-night emotions. Which is why I show up at the treatment room first thing Thursday morning armed with two coffees, a breakfast sandwich, and a copy of the Otters’ fraternization policy tucked into my jacket pocket.
Who says romance is dead?
The room is quiet when I step inside, the smell of antiseptic and eucalyptus hanging faintly in the air. The lights are on, and I see Elliot’s station already prepped for her first patient. Bandages are neatly stacked, resistance bands lined up like soldiers.
Then she appears.
Out of the supply closet, balancing a precarious armload of physio tape. She looks…impossibly good for someone wearing sweats. Her blonde hair is pulled into a lopsided braid, pieces escaping to frame her face in a way that feels reckless and intimate. The pink scrunchie in her hair stands out against her black Otters track suit.
Her eyes widen when she spots me, and she makes a tiny squeak that lodges itself under my ribs. Before I can even savour it, every single roll of tape tumbles from her arms, scattering like bowling pins across the floor.
“Good morning,” I say, after rehearsing about fifty better openings all week. Brilliant. Truly Shakespearean.
“Good morning,” she echoes, cheeks pink as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and crouches to gather the mess. I bend to help, but by the time I’ve maneuvered my too-large frame into a crouch and stretched for a single roll, she’s already collected the rest and stacked them neatly at her station. The picture of professionalism.
Except for the part where she squeaked at the sight of me.
She keeps her back turned, busying herself with the tape like it might explode if she doesn’t arrange it just right. And me? I stand there, holding a lukewarm breakfast sandwich, wondering if maybe she’s as rattled by me as I am by her.
“Thank you.” She accepts the tape I hold out and continues fussing with the already perfectly stacked rolls.
I hold out the coffee and the bakery bag next. The coffee smells faintly of burned caramel. “These are for you.” When she stares at the offering, confused, I add, “You said you don’t have time for breakfast most mornings.”
Her eyes finally lift. For a moment everything else drops away and I see her full-on. It’s not the same nervousness that came before she almost kissed me on Friday. This is the look I remember from the day she barged into my office expecting bad news.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, setting the sandwich and coffee on the counter.
Her throat moves. “Like what?”
“Like you’re afraid you’re about to lose your job.”
She freezes. “Am I going to lose my job?”
Jesus. “No.” I can’t help the sharpness in my voice; the thought is ridiculous. “Of course not. The Otters HR policy doesn’t prohibit relationships between employees.”
Her shoulders sag as if I’ve removed a weight, then draw tight again. “Thewhat?”
I pull the offending little pamphlet from my jacket and spread it open between us on the counter. The paper crumpled from how many times I’ve folded and unfolded it. “Policy HR-095,” I read, even though I have it memorized. “Section one: Employees may pursue personal or romantic relationships provided they don’t, one, interfere with job performance or the work environment; two, create conflicts of interest or appearances of favouritism; and three, involve direct reporting or supervisory relationships.”
She blinks, slowly. I push the paper toward her, and when she takes it, her fingers brush mine—brief, electric, and I nearly forget how to breathe.
“But…you and I are not in a relationship,” she says, voice small, cheeks flushing the colour of an apple.
“Not yet,” I say, and the words feel impossibly honest when they leave my mouth. “But we’re going to be.”
“We are?” She’s still on edge.
“Elliot.” I make myself lower my voice, softer than my usual bark. “You wanted to kiss me on Friday.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes sparking. “Even if I did, as I recall, you didn’t want to kiss me.” The words hiss out.
I stare at her like she’s speaking a foreign language. “I don’t understand how you came to that conclusion.”
