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"Do you know what time of year it is?"
From the moment Helen had opened the door to the boardroom to see Max and Karen seated alone at one end of the conference table, she'd known this was a trap. Max has got that expression on his face which he only ever has when he's holding all the cards, which is concerning since as far as Helen's aware, they're not even playing right now.
"Time for you to get a calendar?" She quips with a singular raised eyebrow, watching the corner of Karen's mouth curl appreciatively.
"It's October," Max continues, unperturbed by the dig at his organizational skills. "My favorite time of year, because that means it's time for the national conference on blood-borne infectious diseases."
"Oh, how could I forget?" Helen shoots back, trying to suppress the sarcasm. Like he hasn't asked her if she'll come to this conference every year since he'd arrived, and like she hasn't gone out of her way to arrange a series of increasingly elaborate excuses in order to avoid it every year since. "Sorry Max, I've got a packed schedule coming up next week, it's back-to-back appointments."
"Ah, but Karen just happened to mention in this morning's board meeting that Doctor Helen was supposed to tape a segment with Ellen next week which just got pushed back a month, so those appointments don't start until Thursday. Every year there's always something which gets in the way of you making it out there, so the way I see it, this is an exciting opportunity."
This time, Helen doesn't bother to hide her glare as she turns it on him.
"That, and I think it's important that we strengthen the alignment between hematology and infectious diseases at the hospital, for the good of our patients. Internal medicine can't afford for us to be siloed, don't you agree?"
It's such a tenuous argument that Helen almost walks out then and there, but she's trying hard to stay in Karen's good books these days because it makes for a much easier life when budget approvals come around. So, she grits her teeth and forces a smile so fake that it makes her jaw hurt, shooting him a look which very clearly communicates a physical threat to his life. "What a great idea, Max."
And that's how Helen finds herself on a plane headed for Colorado for what she's pretty sure is going to be the most uninspiring three days of her life.
And that's how it all begins.
~
Denver International looks exactly like every other airport in every major city in America, Helen observes, apart from a roof which is trying too hard, and something particularly alarming which greets them outside arrivals while they queue for a taxi.
"Sorry, does that say tornado warning?" She splutters, staring at an ominous flashing weather alert on a screen behind Max.
He turns. "Oh, Stirling," he says, sounding nonchalant in a way he has absolutely no right to. "We're headed that way but a little further over, so it'll probably miss us."
Max's words in conjunction with the map underneath the alert don't escape Helen's attention, even while the 'probably' rings in her ears. "Hold on, I thought this conference was here in Denver?"
"It's... near Denver," he tries, as they reach the front of the queue. "A few hours' drive, three maybe, no more than that."
Helen rolls her eyes. Max gives her what he probably thinks is a winning smile as he loads their bags into the trunk of the waiting taxi and holds the door open for her. "You're never going to hear the end of this, I need you to know that now," she warns him, as she slides into the back seat.
Unlike the airport, the drive is unlike anything she's ever experienced before. The city limits fade quickly around them, replaced by miles and miles of nothing, vast fields and plains stretching from the road all the way to the horizon in every direction. Helen rests her head against the window and watches the world go by, tiny towns flashing past in the blink of an eye.
Eventually, they arrive in Sedgewick, which is a town so small that Helen is confident she's seen more people in the hospital canteen than actually live here. The conference centre it inexplicably contains, with its adjoining hotel, is unremarkable. "Why would they hold this thing in the middle of nowhere?" She asks, too groggy to even fully convey her irritation as they make their way into the lobby, both stifling yawns.
"I've never thought to ask," Max says, cheerily. "It's got its charm." They stop at the front desk, where a bored-looking young woman sits, filing her nails. "Uh, hi," he tries. "Max Goodwin and Helen Sharpe, here to check in." He slides his drivers' license across the counter, while Helen takes the opportunity to cast her gaze over their tired surroundings. The place looks like it can't have changed much since the eighties.
The receptionist taps away at her keyboard for a few minutes, still looking disinterested, and then turns back to them. "That's you both checked in," she says, voice monotone. "You're in 208."
"Um," Max's brow furrows. "There's two rooms, right? I booked two."
Looking confused, she glances back at her screen. "I can only see one booking here Sir, Max Goodwin and Helen Sharpe."
Max pinches the bridge of his nose and gives her an imploring look. "No, see it wasn't Max Goodwin and Helen Sharpe, it was Max Goodwin, comma, and Helen Sharpe. Separately."
This makes Helen laugh, because it's just so Max, and knowing him, he was probably trying to do about six other things at the time he booked this so she wouldn't put it past him to have messed it up. "I don't think the Oxford comma is doing as much work in that sentence as you think it is," she says to him, quietly.
She watches as the receptionist turns back to the commuter, scrolls and clicks for a while and then raises a hand to her mouth. "Sir, I'm so sorry. There's been an error with the booking system, I can see you booked two rooms but it's only allocated one, for the two of you together."
"It's okay," Helen says, the weary post-travel feeling beginning to catch up with her. "We'll just book another room."
After a few seconds intently focused on her computer screen, she receptionist's face falls. "I can only apologize to you both," she says. "We're completely booked up for the conference, there's no more rooms available."
"You're kidding me," Helen mutters under her breath. Then, at a normal volume she asks, "Where's the next nearest hotel?"
The receptionist winces. "We're a small town, so your next option is a few hours back towards Denver."
Brilliant. It's like the morning that just keeps on giving. For a minute, Helen strongly considers heading back to the airport and leaving. She's pretty confident Max wouldn't stop her at this point; he'd probably offer to go instead, even though he's the one who actually wants to be here. Sparing a cursory look in his direction though, she notices he seems genuinely distressed by this turn of events, and despite herself she can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. Realizing how it'll make him feel if she heads back now, she sucks it up and makes an executive decision on behalf of them both.
"Okay," she sighs, taking the keycards from the counter. "We'll take the room."
"We will?" Max asks, looking up in surprise from what must be a particularly interesting spot on the floor.
Helen nods, pointing him in the direction of the elevator. "I need to drop these bags off, and then I want at least one coffee and an extremely large glass of wine before the welcome talks start. We'll figure out the rest later."
~
Later comes around all too quickly, and before Helen knows it, the first evening is behind them and they've passed as much time as they can at the terrible hotel bar (Helen drinking terrible wine, Max drinking terrible scotch). The only thing left to do is retreat upstairs and work out their sleeping arrangements. The tension between them in the elevator is palpable, and Helen finds herself rolling her eyes again at the whole situation.
"I'll take the couch," Max says, as soon as the door closes behind them. "You take the bed." It's measured, like he's rehearsed it in his head—which, well, he probably has.
Helen looks from Max to the couch and back again. "It's about two feet shorter than you are, how's that going to work?"
"I'll..." He shrugs. "I'll curl up. Or I'll put the cushions on the floor, just toss me a pillow and a sheet and I'm all good."
She shakes her head, bemused. "Anything else I should know about you before I commit to this?" A terrifying thought comes to her, borne of too many first nights with exes she'd found herself starting to hate while they slept. "Oh god, you don't snore, do you?"
Max ducks his head, giving her a wry apologetic smile. "You can just throw something at me if I do."
"Don't test me," she warns him, slipping off her shoes and noticing the true extent of their height difference without the extra four inches her heels afford her. "Because I'll do exactly that."
There are a few strange moments of misalignment as they get ready for bed; Helen kicking Max out of the bathroom as she reaches for her toothbrush and he comes in to wash his face ('I'm not brushing my teeth in front of you, that's a step too far,' which earns her a gentle 'You're so weird, you know.') and the moment she walks out to see him standing nonchalantly in the centre of the room setting an alarm on his phone in just his boxer-briefs, and is forced to suddenly play it cool. Helen is nothing if not aware of her own weaknesses, and she is terrible at playing it cool.
It's not until they're both in bed and the only light left illuminating the room is a single bedside lamp that Helen's brain starts to wind down and she becomes aware of the noise of the wind picking up outside, and the far-off roll of thunder. Not even the wine can stop the uneasy feeling she gets remembering the tornado alert which had been put out for a few towns over.
"Is it me, or is it getting loud out there?" Helen asks in the vague direction of the couch, but the steady breathing which comes back to her in lieu of an answer tells her Max is somehow already fast asleep. With a resigned sigh, she switches off the lamp and curls up with one hand over her ear to block out the noise of the thunder.
~
Helen has always had a single recurring dream.
She's six years old and cowering under the blankets on her bed, listening to what feels like the end of the world as a storm rages its way across the south of England, taking with it anything in its path. She's crying, terrified by the loudest sounds she's ever heard. The fear is paralyzing, and although she knows that it's a dream when she's stuck in it now, the first time it was real. She can never seem to wake herself up from it. Windows smash, everything shakes, and car alarms blare against the unrelenting roar of the wind. She's on her own. Her mum is working nights now, and her dad—he's not here anymore. The eye of the storm is a lonely place.
Normally the dream happens when she's alone, which is more often than not these days. Tonight though, she feels the paralysis of fear loosen its grip on her a little earlier than it usually does, and it's like swimming to the surface from the depths of the ocean, slowly realizing there are lights and sounds which had been out of reach before, pulling her up.
Max is kneeling at the side of the bed, one hand on her wrist. The bedside lamp is back on, illuminating the concerned expression on his face.
"Sorry," Helen murmurs, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she remembers where they are. Then, tuning in to the sound of the raging wind outside, she flinches suddenly, pulling away from Max's hand.
"Shit, sorry," he rushes. "I didn't—you were talking in your sleep and then you started shaking—I wanted to make sure you were okay. I'm sorry I scared you."
Helen shakes her head. "It's not you, I'm—" she tries to think of a way to phrase it that won't result in Max giving her that look of pity he does which makes her stomach churn, because that really would be the nail in the coffin of this entire trip. "I'm not very good with storms. Seeing you just caught me by surprise. I'm okay, you can go back to sleep." She tries to get a hold of her legs, which are still trembling underneath the sheets, but the sound of the wind outside is impossible to tune out again, keeping her on edge. Instead, she pushes herself into a sitting position and curls her knees under herself to stop them giving her away.
Max is many things, but if there's one thing Helen can rely on it's that he's always the most perceptive in the most inconvenient moments. He rests a hand on the edge of the bed, pointing to her own right hand on the pillow. She follows his gaze and realizes it's shaking.
"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks, and it's so quiet and so soft that it brings a lump to her throat. She closes her eyes for a long moment, wishing he wasn't here witnessing this, wishing he was still fast asleep, balling her hand into a fist to try and claw back some control over her responses. When she opens her eyes again, he hasn't moved.
"Is this what a tornado feels like?" Her voice feels shaky. Max can probably hear the worry in it.
"Not up close," he says firmly, shaking his head. "We're far enough away from Sterling that this is just the thunderstorm part of it."
As he says it, lightning flashes briefly outside followed by a clap of thunder which makes Helen draw a sharp intake of breath, reaching out before her brain knows what it's doing, reflexively grabbing his hand and holding it tight.
"Sorry." She pulls away from him for the second time in as many minutes, pulse still racing. "I wasn't expecting that." Then, sensing he's not going to give up and go back to bed without her filling in some of the blanks here, she distills the essence of her panic into something she hopes will reassure him she isn't insane. "When I was really young, I was at home on my own when a cyclone hit London. I didn't understand what it was at the time, I just remember it was so loud I thought I was going to die. It's stupid, but bad storms still give me nightmares."
Max tilts his head to the side as he listens, and this time it's him who puts his hand over hers. The weight of it is warm and reassuring in a way Helen can't quite explain; the tiniest of distractions from the sound of the wind whipping through the trees outside.
"How can I help?" He asks, and the familiarity of the phrase coupled with the sheer absurdity of the situation is enough to make her forget about the storm for a few seconds as she closes her eyes and lets the quiet laughter reverberate through her. She's not quite calm yet, but she's getting there.
There's an emotional vulnerability that seems to only come during the middle of the night, and it makes Helen crave human closeness in a way she'd normally be embarrassed of. "You don't have to—I mean, the sofa really doesn't look that comfortable, and this bed is big enough that it wouldn't be..." She wonders, as she hurriedly cuts herself off in the middle of the sentence, if this is how Max feels when he realizes he's being awkward around her. "It's been a weird day," she says, hoping that's enough of an explanation. She pats the other side of the bed to indicate that he's welcome to it.
"You're right," he says, tone leveled, not giving anything away. "It's a really terrible couch."
Helen lets out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding as Max gets to his feet, moves to the other side of the bed and climbs in next to her. It's a testament to what the dream does to her that she doesn't think about the last time she shared a bed with anyone and doesn't attempt to justify this to herself by putting a label on how she feels about him right now. Things between them have always defied categorization, so why start now?
From her side of the bed she's facing the window, but as the next flash of lighting illuminates the sky through the blinds she feels her body go tense. She turns over as the thunder follows, surprised to find Max facing her rather than with his back to her. The intimacy of it catches her off-guard.
"My grandparents used to live out here," Max says, softly. "South of where we are now, closer to Colorado Springs."
Helen raises a curious eyebrow. Apart from his sister's death, Max has never shared a single detail of his childhood or family with her, and—as a fairly private person herself—she's never really thought to ask why that is. It never felt like any of her business; he was never hers.
"You look like you need a distraction," he says by way of an answer, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We'd come here for Christmas as a family, before Luna died. Afterwards, my parents sent me here for the summer sometimes. I think they needed the space, and I didn't mind. Honestly, it's part of the reason I like coming to this conference so much."
As he tells her about his childhood summers, the distraction pulls Helen's focus away from the wind and the thunder, until eventually she can feel her eyelids growing heavy again. Sleep pulls her slowly back under, and it's dreamless this time.
~
Max's alarm wakes her. It takes her a second to realize that it isn't a particularly firm pillow that she's had her head against—or her arm draped over—for most of the night, but the solid warmth of his chest, rising and falling slowly as he comes round. And well, fuck, when had that happened?
Helen lifts her arm away as fast as she can, trying to roll back to her own side of the bed before he's fully conscious. A gruff and confused sounding "Oh, uh—good morning," from Max's side of the bed tells her that she's failed in this particular endeavor. At least the storm has passed.
Whispering a string of profanities under her breath, she frantically climbs out of bed and makes a break for the bathroom with a hasty "Morning, I'm just going to shower." She doesn't look back at the bed, because she has no idea how she's supposed to look him in the eye and explain how over the course of a single night she'd managed to wake him up with a nightmare and then completely violate his personal boundaries when all he'd done was try to help her.
It's only after she's showered, when she's wrapping herself in a towel that she realizes she didn't bring her clothes into the bathroom with her to change, and kicks herself for it. Feeling self-conscious in a way she hasn't since she was a teenager, she tucks the towel into itself and opens the bathroom door, scurrying out as quickly as she can. They share an uncomfortable wordless nod as they trade places, Max heading into the bathroom and Helen shuffling towards the wardrobe, and then the door is closed behind him and she can breathe properly again. She gets dressed faster than she's ever done before in her life, stuffs her make-up bag into her handbag and leaves the room before he makes it out of the shower.
~
"How are you getting on?"
Shit. She's managed to avoid him for the entire morning by scanning the schedule and picking the talks that he's least likely to want to go to himself, but now he's caught up with her in the queue for coffee. "Oh, y'know," she lowers her voice conspiratorially. "The oncology conferences have better snacks." It's all bravado, and he knows it, and she knows that he knows it, but they do the dance just the same.
"I'll be sure to write that on my feedback form." Max nudges her forwards to the counter and orders for both of them. "Double espresso and a soy cappuccino, please."
Helen's a little taken aback that he knows her real coffee order when most of the time they spend at work has them drinking whatever terrible sludge comes out of the coffee pot in the ED while on the go and never ever getting time to finish it. "Thanks," she mumbles, as he hands her the cup. She can't tell if they're okay after this morning or if they're just both as good at each other at pretending, but there's no way to know for now.
"What's up next?" He asks her, glancing at the upside-down schedule which is tucked under her arm.
"Uh," Helen says, trying to pick something which sounds convincing rather than like a deliberate avoidance strategy. "Blood-borne Pathogen Hazards in Accident Investigation Practice." Too late, she realizes he'll probably be going to that talk too.
"Great, I'd love to get your thoughts on that," he says in a rush, in a tone which suggests he really doesn't want to get her thoughts on it. "I'm gonna grab a sandwich and get some fresh air. See you later." And with that, he turns on his heels and makes a beeline for the door. Helen's left standing still by a stall which is giving away free pens, feeling even worse than before.
~
At the end of the day when he's nowhere to be seen, she kills some time at the bar nursing a G&T which makes her long for home, and then admits defeat and heads for the stairs. On the second floor, she lingers outside of their room for a full minute before opening the door. He's there, his duffel unzipped and half-packed on one side of the bed. The sight of it makes her feel slightly sick.
"Wait," she starts, which feels stupid because it's hardly like he's about to run out past her. If anything, he's moving so slowly and methodically for Max that it scares her. "I think we need to talk."
He turns, giving her a sad look. "Listen, Helen. I—"
"I'm sorry." She blurts out, feeling like it isn't enough.
Strangely, Max doesn't seem to process it at all. He waves a hand dismissively and looks her in the eye for the first time all day. "I think I should go back to New York," he says. "Or at least give one of the hotels towards Denver a call. I'm beyond mortified about what happened this morning, I know sorry isn't good enough, and I'm completely supportive if you want to pursue this. I should never have—"
"Max," she cuts him off. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"What are you talking about?" His brow furrows.
"This morning! I was trying to apologize for ending up... How we did, while we slept." Recalling the memory, she feels another pang of guilt in her chest. "That wasn't anything you did, it was my arms all over you. It was me who crossed the line."
Max winces, and strangely a pink-tinged flush begins to creep up his neck. "No, if we're apportioning blame, it's not just you. I had—uh, let's just say I had a very physical reaction to it. I figured you noticed."
Comprehension dawns, casting all of Max's actions today in a completely different light. The avoidance, the awkwardness—it all makes sense. They'd both been too embarrassed to notice it in each other. Helen breathes a quiet sigh of relief, tinged with sympathy, her mind reeling as he continues.
"I thought that was why you were out of here like a shot this morning. I didn't want to make things worse by trying to talk to you about it in the middle of the day."
Helen shakes her head to stop him. "I've never felt anything but safe with you. I left because I was terrified about what it meant, Max. That even in my sleep, I..." She trails off, feeling too exposed by the words which are hanging unsaid in the air between them.
Of course, because he's Max, he pushes. "You what?"
It's not fair that she always has to be the one to say it. "You know," she says, imploring him to realize what he's asking of her in this moment.
And then Max does something unexpected; so unexpected that if you'd asked Helen to list off his possible reactions to her words, it wouldn't even have made the top fifty. He cradles his left hand in his right, glancing down at them both for a second, and then in one easy motion he slides off his wedding ring and slips it into the pocket of his jacket like an afterthought. "I do know," he says, his voice suddenly half an octave lower than before. Helen gets the feeling that they're teetering on the verge of something. They've been here before, though never this close to the edge.
"I've known for a long time," Max says, and the way he says it is forlorn; apologetic, even. "Long enough that I didn't know if you still felt the same way now. I didn't even know how to ask. It wouldn't have been fair to you."
Helen has to remind herself to keep breathing, as she asks "And you?" She can feel her heart beating so hard in her chest that she wonders if Max can hear it too. "How do you feel?"
The sad expression is gone from his face now, replaced by wide eyes which leave her no room to doubt him. "Helen," he says slowly, like it's the first time he's ever tasted her name in his mouth. "I've never wanted anyone like I want you."
She doesn't quite register how it happens, because they both move simultaneously and it's a tangle of limbs for a second before they find purchase on each other's bodies, but then she's in Max's lap and her lips are on his, kissing him hard, his hands wrapped snugly around her back. Giving in after months—years, if she's honest with herself—of fantasizing what this might be like feels so intense that after a few seconds Helen realizes she's kissing with her eyes open to make sure it's really happening. She quickly snaps them shut so she can get lost in it.
He melts into her touch as she melts into his, kissing in slow synchronization, taking it in turns to undress each other until they're skin on skin, nothing but friction in between them. Max holds her in his lap until she grows impatient and starts to grind against him and then he takes matters into his own hands, flipping them both over with a low growl which goes straight through her and leaves her suddenly desperate for him to touch her all over and keep touching her until he knows everything there is to know.
"Oh," he says, delighted as he settles in between her legs and runs two fingers up the inside of her thigh. "I've just gotta—" And then he dips his head, and all Helen can do is focus on is the heat of his tongue, the firm insistence of his fingers and the sound he makes when she rakes her fingers through his hair, keeping him close. Max approaches it with the same wholehearted dedication with which he does everything else, and it doesn't take long before she's gasping, her free hand reaching down to grab hold of one of his for something to hold on to. For a brief second, his hand in hers is her only real anchor on anything.
Max kisses his way back up her body slowly and deliberately, before burying his face in the crook of her neck and making a sound half way between a laugh and a frustrated groan. "I don't have a condom," he says sheepishly, which Helen suddenly finds the most endearing thing in the world.
"Luckily one of us is a consummate medical professional," she teases him. Coyly, and offering him no further explanation, she says, "Inside pocket of my handbag."
He looks at her like he's about to devour her whole, and it surprises her how nervous that makes her, given that they're both already naked and he's just had his tongue inside her, for god's sake. He reaches for her bag on the end of the couch and returns, nudging her thighs apart gently with his knees.
It's different to her fantasies. He touches her with more self-assurance than she'd expected, takes direction, talks to her. She's not sure how Max—who sometimes can't even string three words together when they're in the same room getting a little too close to the truth—can suddenly whisper things which make her heart swell while they're like this, joined together in every sense, but he manages it nonetheless. He never stops kissing her; her lips, her neck, across her chest, featherlight over her nipples until she shudders and tells him, "harder." He obliges.
He slows down when she cries out his name, ever the gentleman, stroking her through her orgasm and then carrying on, watching her responses like he somehow just knows it won't take much for her to come again. The second time she wraps her legs tight around his back, draws him in and takes him with her.
~
After, they lie intertwined on top of the sheets, Helen stroking up and down one of his arms with her fingertips. Max's hands are still lazily exploring her body, stopping to find the spots where she's ticklish and kissing her every time he manages to make her laugh, like he's drinking it in. At some point, his touches become more urgent, and her relaxed sighs begin to turn into moans. Every time they fall asleep, they wake up entangled and desperate for each other again, sinking back under and coming back up over and over until dawn begins to creep across the sky outside.
When Helen wakes for good, eyes hazy from lack of sleep, she's surprised and a little confused to find herself alone in the middle of the bed. The bathroom door is open and it's obviously empty, so Max's whereabouts are a mystery. Even though she knows he can't have gone far, worry begins to creep in at the periphery of her thoughts. What if he wasn't ready after all; if taking off his wedding ring had been a mistake and now he's hiding somewhere trying to process the guilt? Or worse still, what if this was some inexplicably casual thing to him, an itch to scratch and then move on from? The idea of trying to go back to what they were makes her heart heavy in her chest.
Feeling like she's in need of some tough love, she does the only thing she can think of; rolls over to grab her phone from the nightstand, and dials.
"How's the conference?" Lauren asks, never one for hellos.
Helen exhales. "I slept with Max."
The sound of what sounds like a drink being spat out carries down the line. "Oh my god. How was it? Actually no—we can come back to that. Why don't you sound happier about it?"
Helen stares at the ceiling. "Because I woke up and he was gone, and now I'm freaking out because if he thinks this was a mistake then I don't think I can go back." She doesn't say that she can't deal with being something that he regrets; that just the idea of that would break her in two, but Lauren knows her well enough that she probably hears it in her voice.
"How long has he been gone?"
She sighs again. "I don't know, I've been awake about fifteen minutes."
"Did he leave a note?"
Helen scans the room, pointedly ignoring the mess of their clothes on the floor from last night. "No."
"It's official then," Lauren says, her tone heavy. "He's left you and moved to Canada. I hope the new Medical Director doesn't want to revert all of his policies, that would be a real headache for my department."
The sarcasm helps just a little bit. "You're the worst friend," Helen replies. "I'm having a real crisis here."
"So don't." It's the kind of no-nonsense response she'd expected and hoped for all along. "You're not freaking out because he's disappeared, you're freaking out because it happened in the first place. Find him and talk to him."
Nodding at the empty room in resignation, Helen pulls back the sheets to get out of bed, just as she hears the electronic beep from the outside of the door signifying a keycard against the lock. "Gotta go, sorry, speak to you later," she says in a single breath as she hangs up, cutting off Lauren's protests that she didn't give her an answer on how it was.
Max stands there, framed in the doorway holding a paper bag and two coffee cups. "I went to the one place in town with an actual espresso machine," he explains. "You were fast asleep when I left, I thought I could get there and back before you woke up." The expression on her face must still be one of concern, because he stops talking about the coffee as soon as they make eye contact. "What's wrong?"
Feeling like an idiot, she tells him. "I thought you left because you were freaking out."
He crosses the room in the blink of an eye, setting everything in his hands down on the nightstand and sitting cross-legged next to her on the bed. "I'm not freaking out at all. Last night was, uh—" his eyes glaze over and he must be remembering, because his cheeks flush pink again. "Incredible. So no, I'm not freaking out. Are you?"
Helen shakes her head twice, realizes she's not fooling anyone and then nods, slowly. "All I know is I've got feelings for you, feelings I was doing a really good job at keeping under wraps before this week, and now everything is a hundred times more complicated."
He kisses her then, and it catches her by surprise but she leans into it just the same. It feels the same as it had last night; not new or strange or wrong at all. It's the easiest thing in the world.
"It doesn't feel complicated to me," Max says as they pull apart, brushing her braids away from her face and tucking them behind her ear. "I've denied how I feel about you for a really long time. Why don't we just try feeling what we feel without anything standing in the way of that?"
Helen can't help but laugh at his optimism, which she loves and hates him for in equal measures. "You mean apart from our jobs, our working relationship and the fact that officially you're still a patient of mine?"
He waves a hand through the air, dismissively. "Details."
"Some details matter, you know." She's teasing him now, already at ease from hearing him acknowledge his feelings aloud. It turns out that had been all she'd needed.
As a smile creeps gradually across her face, Max takes the opportunity to pull her out of her thoughts for good. "We can take it slow. Anyway, you can't dump me yet," he says mischievously, pointing out the bag on the nightstand next to the coffees. "I brought donuts."
~
Hours later, when they're on their flight back to JFK and she's in a window seat with her head on his shoulder, his words from earlier come drifting back to her. "What did you mean, exactly?" She asks. "When you said take it slow?"
Max slides his hand into hers, interlacing their fingers. They've held hands before, but always in the worst of circumstances, never like this. She turns her head to see him smiling. "Let me take you on a date—a real date, when we're back in the city."
Intrigued, she squeezes his hand. "What does a real date look like?"
Max closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath. When he opens them again, he looks sincere, but far-away like he's just been daydreaming. "You really want to know?"
Helen nods.
"I'll take you to The Smith for brunch," he says, and it takes her by surprise because she hadn't expected specifics, but clearly there's a plan forming here. "And neither of us will be able to decide between sweet and savory, so we'll get both and share." He drops a kiss on her shoulder against the silk of her blouse. "Then we'll go to the Met, and try and make each other laugh in front of serious works of art. Maybe we'll even understand some of them. After, we'll walk up through the park, because the leaves are starting to change and that's when it looks the prettiest." He kisses her again, at the base of her neck, following it with a soft line of kisses up to her jaw. "Then you'll complain because we'll keep walking a few blocks up into Harlem, but I know a tiny incredible jazz bar with a sax player who'll blow your mind. You'll forgive me, we'll get cocktails and dance, and then before it gets too late, I'll do the gentlemanly thing and kiss you on the cheek and put you in a taxi home."
Helen makes a mental note that he's more than capable of getting through a full sentence without cutting himself off when he wants something. "You sure about that last part?" She asks, grinning.
He shakes his head and leans in close. "No," he whispers. "That part was a complete lie, but I can't tell you how it'll really end while there are other people around."
And that's how Helen finds herself blushing and faking a sudden interest in the in-flight magazine as the plane climbs up and up and up, homeward bound.
And that's how it all begins.