Pulse between us

Crossed lines

Taliah’s POV

The lab feels quieter after hours.

Most of the staff have clocked out, the overhead lights dimmed to half-strength. Only the machines keep humming, steady and unbothered — a rhythm I’ve come to depend on.

I tell myself staying late helps me catch up on reports.

But maybe I just prefer the silence — the kind that doesn’t ask questions.

The door opens behind me.

Footsteps.

Steady, unhurried.

I don’t have to turn to know who it is.

“No one told me we were competing for the ‘last to leave’ award,” Noah says, his tone light but low enough to stir something I wish it wouldn’t.

I glance over my shoulder. “I’m behind on my documentation. Go home, Carter.”

He steps closer, scanning the files spread across the counter. “You always were terrible at taking breaks.”

I ignore that. “You need something?”

He hesitates before holding up a folder. “I was told to run the imaging results from the neurology ward by you before final submission. The system flagged an anomaly.”

“Let me see.”

I take the file, brushing his hand by accident. My pulse stutters. I hope he doesn’t notice — but he does. His eyes lift, searching mine for something I refuse to give.

“It’s nothing major,” he says softly, “just wanted your confirmation.”

I review the scans, marking a note. “You were right. It’s just a calibration error.”

He nods, quiet. Too quiet.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The hum of the equipment fills the room like a heartbeat that belongs to neither of us, yet somehow connects us both.

Then, without looking up, he says, “I didn’t know you were engaged.”

My pen pauses mid-line. “I didn’t know you were coming back.”

A beat passes — sharp and still.

“I didn’t plan to,” he admits. “Not here. Not… like this.”

I close the folder. “Then why did you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me — not like a coworker, not like a stranger. Like someone who still remembers the way I used to paint until sunrise.

“I thought I could start over,” he says finally. “Turns out, some places don’t let you.”

There’s so much I want to say — You left without a word. You don’t get to walk back in like nothing happened.

But the words stay trapped in my throat.

Instead, I slide the file back toward him. “Your results are approved. Goodnight, Mr. Carter.”

He takes it, expression unreadable. “Goodnight, Dr. Monroe.”

He turns to leave, but at the doorway, he stops.

“You still paint?”

The question catches me off guard.

I should say no. I should end this here.

“Yes,” I hear myself whisper.

He nods slowly, like that single word means more than it should.

Then he walks out, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before.

I stand there a while longer, staring at the door, trying to convince myself it’s just work. Just a job.

But deep down, I know — we’ve already crossed a line.