Chapter 7 — Coffee, Technically
2230 Words
One week later, Leo Reyes returned to St. Raphael Medical Center with sunglasses, a baseball cap, two security guards, one irritated manager, and the expression of a man who had been forced to behave for seven consecutive days.
Maya saw him before he saw her.
He was sitting in the outpatient surgery clinic, long legs stretched carefully in front of him, one hand resting near his abdomen as if he did not want anyone to notice he was still moving cautiously. His disguise was useless. The sunglasses were expensive, the cap was pulled low, and he still looked exactly like Leo Reyes pretending not to be Leo Reyes.
A nurse walked past him twice with no medical reason.
Leo smiled at her both times.
Maya looked down at his chart.
Post-operative day seven. Laparoscopic appendectomy. No reported fever. No wound drainage. No vomiting. Tolerating diet. Walking. Pain controlled. Patient requesting clearance for light training.
Of course he was.
She opened the door. “Mr. Reyes.”
Leo removed his sunglasses slowly, as if unveiling himself for dramatic effect. “Dr. Bennett.”
“You’re early.”
“I was raised to respect surgeons.”
His manager, seated beside him, made a faint sound that suggested this was not entirely true.
Maya stepped aside. “Come in.”
Leo stood carefully. Not dramatically, not with exaggerated suffering, but carefully enough that Maya noticed. He caught her noticing and immediately smiled.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I practiced walking before I came. I wanted to impress you.”
“By using your legs?”
“Recovery has made me humble.”
“I doubt that.”
“Recovery has made me humble adjacent.”
Maya pointed to the exam table. “Sit.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
His manager tried to follow them in.
Maya stopped him with one look. “Unless you had abdominal surgery, you can wait outside.”
The manager opened his mouth.
Leo patted his shoulder. “Be brave.”
The door closed behind him, leaving Maya and Leo alone in the room.
For a moment, without the manager, the security, and the hospital gossip pressing against the walls, the space became too quiet. Leo sat on the exam table, and Maya moved to the counter, washing her hands with more attention than soap required.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Better.”
“Pain?”
“Two.”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Fine,” Leo said. “Three when I cough, four when I laugh, which is tragic because I am naturally delightful.”
“Any fever?”
“No.”
“Nausea? Vomiting?”
“No.”
“Eating?”
“Yes.”
“Walking?”
“Reluctantly.”
“Training?”
He looked offended. “You told me not to.”
“And did you listen?”
“I did.”
Maya turned fully toward him.
Leo placed one hand over his chest. “I know. I was shocked too.”
She put on gloves. “Lie back.”
“I usually prefer dinner first.”
“Mr. Reyes.”
He lay back at once, but he was smiling.
Maya lifted the edge of his shirt to check the small incisions. She kept her movements clinical and efficient. The wounds were healing well. No redness. No discharge. Minimal tenderness. A routine recovery.
It should have felt routine.
It did not.
Leo was warm beneath her fingers, still and unusually quiet as she examined him. She could feel his breathing change, not much, just enough to tell her he was aware of her hand near his skin. Maya focused on the dressings, the sutures, the facts.
Facts were safe.
“Looks good,” she said, stepping back.
Leo pushed himself up slowly. “That sounded like praise.”
“For your incisions.”
“I’ll take it.”
“You’re healing well. No full training yet. Light walking. No running. No abdominal exercises. No contact sport. You can increase activity gradually if you remain pain-free, but you need formal clearance before returning to the field.”
His face dimmed for half a second.
It was quick. Almost hidden. But Maya saw it.
“Four days?” he asked.
“No.”
“Five?”
“No.”
“You didn’t even consider it.”
“Because I understand the meaning of no.”
He leaned back on his hands, trying to make disappointment look like charm. “My team misses me.”
“Your team will miss you more if you end up back in my operating room.”
“Would I at least get the same surgeon?”
“Not if I see you first and run away.”
He laughed, then caught himself and pressed a hand to his side. “Still hurts.”
“Because you keep laughing.”
“You keep saying things that make that difficult.”
Maya removed her gloves and threw them away. “I’ll write your follow-up instructions.”
“And after that?”
“After that, you leave.”
Leo’s eyes brightened. “Medically speaking, am I still your patient?”
Maya paused at the computer.
There it was.
She had known he would return to this. Men like Leo Reyes probably did not forget invitations they wanted answered. But there was no pressure in his voice, no entitlement. Only that bright, impossible patience, as if he had all the time in the world and had decided to spend some of it waiting for her.
“You are in my clinic,” Maya said. “So yes.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Medicine often is.”
“But if the appointment ends?”
“You will become a former patient with discharge instructions.”
“A former patient,” he repeated, tasting the words as if they were useful. “Interesting.”
“Do not make that sound dangerous.”
“I would never.”
She looked at him.
He smiled. “I would rarely.”
Maya typed faster. “You need another follow-up in two weeks.”
“With you?”
“With surgery.”
“That answer again.”
“It remains accurate.”
Leo watched her for a moment, then said, softer, “Did you get the croissants?”
Maya’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You shouldn’t send gifts to hospital staff.”
“It was breakfast.”
“It was still inappropriate.”
“Did you eat one?”
“No.”
That was a lie.
She had eaten half of one at two in the morning after a bowel obstruction case and hated that it had been excellent.
Leo’s smile widened as if he knew. “You ate one.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Maya printed the instruction sheet and handed it to him. “Your recovery plan.”
He accepted it, but his attention stayed on her. “Coffee, Dr. Bennett.”
“No.”
“I’m not currently under anesthesia.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m healing beautifully.”
“Your incisions are healing beautifully. Let’s not overstate the rest of you.”
“I am no longer in a hospital bed.”
“You are sitting on an exam table.”
“Details.”
“Important ones.”
Leo leaned forward slightly, careful with his abdomen. “You said you don’t date patients.”
“I do.”
“So I focused on healing immediately.”
“You are still in follow-up care.”
“Then not a date,” he said. “Coffee. Technically.”
Maya stared at him.
He looked hopeful, but not smug. That mattered more than it should have. Noah had always asked for things as if the answer had already been given years ago, as if love turned consent into a standing agreement. Leo asked like he knew no was still available to her.
That made the yes more dangerous.
“I have ten minutes,” Maya said at last.
Leo went completely still.
Then his smile appeared, slow and brilliant. “That sounded like a yes.”
“It sounded like ten minutes in the hospital cafeteria.”
“I love hospital cafeterias.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I love this one.”
“You’ve never been there.”
“I’m emotionally prepared to love it.”
Maya picked up his chart. “Ten minutes. Coffee. Not a date.”
“Technically,” he said.
“Exactly.”
The hospital cafeteria was crowded enough to be safe and ugly enough to be unromantic. Maya chose a small table near the back, away from the windows. Leo bought two coffees despite moving slowly, then returned with an expression of deep concentration.
“You look as if you performed surgery,” Maya said.
“I carried hot liquids while recovering from abdominal trauma.”
“You had laparoscopic surgery.”
“My bravery continues to be underestimated.”
She accepted the coffee because refusing now would only make the moment larger than it needed to be. “Thank you.”
Leo sat across from her. No sunglasses now. No cap. Just him, still too handsome, still too bright, but quieter than he was in a room full of people.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Leo looked down at the paper cup. “This coffee is terrible.”
Maya took a sip. “Yes.”
“You knew that.”
“Yes.”
“You brought me here anyway.”
“You said you loved this cafeteria.”
“I was young then. Naive.”
“It was seven minutes ago.”
“I’ve grown.”
Maya almost smiled.
Leo saw it. She knew he did because his own smile changed, softening at the edges, but he had the sense not to celebrate. Instead, he leaned back carefully and looked around.
“Do you always spend this much time at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“That was not hesitation. That worries me.”
“I work in surgery.”
“That explains the hours. Not the answer.”
Maya looked at him over the rim of her cup. “You spend your life training, playing, traveling, and being chased by cameras. I’m not sure you’re qualified to judge anyone’s work-life balance.”
“Fair.” He tapped one finger lightly against the cup. “But I like what I do.”
“So do I.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
Something in his tone made her pause. He was not teasing now.
Leo looked at her as if he was reading the space around her words, not trying to force them open. “I just wondered whether you like anything outside it.”
The question was too gentle to be rude and too accurate to be harmless.
Maya set her coffee down. “That sounds like a date question.”
“Technically coffee question.”
“Still no.”
He nodded once, accepting the boundary without complaint. “Then I’ll ask something else.”
“You have three minutes.”
“What made you choose surgery?”
That question should have been easier.
Maya had answered it many times for interviews, professors, junior doctors, patients who wanted to know why anyone would choose such a brutal specialty. She had a polished version. Discipline. Anatomy. The immediacy of fixing what could be fixed. The privilege of being useful on someone’s worst day.
But under Leo’s attention, the polished version felt too small.
“My father died when I was young,” she said before she could reconsider. “Not because surgery failed him. Because no surgeon reached him in time.”
Leo’s face changed.
No pity. No dramatic sorrow. Just a quiet attention that did not try to make the answer easier.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Maya looked down at her cup. “It was a long time ago.”
“Some things stay long anyway.”
She glanced up.
There it was again, the unsettling sense that beneath all the jokes and golden-boy brightness, Leo Reyes noticed more than he was supposed to.
Her pager saved her.
Maya stood immediately. “I have to go.”
Leo rose too quickly, winced, and tried to pretend he had not.
“Sit down,” Maya said.
“I was being polite.”
“You were being post-operative.”
He sat.
Maya gathered her chart. “Follow the instructions. No training until cleared.”
“Coffee again after my next follow-up?”
“No.”
“Too fast?”
“Very.”
“Then I’ll focus on healing immediately. Again.”
This time, Maya did smile.
It was small. Brief. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.
But Leo saw it.
His face lit up like a stadium.
Maya turned away before he could say anything about it.
She made it three steps toward the cafeteria exit before a flash went off beyond the glass doors.
Not from inside the hospital.
Outside.
A photographer stood near the entrance, camera raised, lens pointed directly at them.
Maya stopped.
Behind her, Leo’s chair scraped back.
The smile disappeared from his voice.
“Dr. Bennett,” he said quietly. “Stay behind me.”
- Writer
