I turn my head enough so that he can see the hard set of my gaze. “No offense, but this isn’t really something I want to discuss with a near-stranger.”

“Of course, of course.” He raises his hands palms out in an apologetic gesture. “Just concerned, that’s all.”

“I appreciate it,” I answer flatly, “but I’m fine.”

“Good to hear,” he says with another slimy grin. It really is creepy, the more you look at it. He smiles the way I imagine a Venus flytrap would when it sees a fly. He shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning against the opposite wall, seeming to have no intention of leaving. “It must be nerve-racking to think of him leaving.”

I turn again with a cocked brow. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I just meant . . . Well. You know the rumor mill. There’s all the talk of Noah transferring to Albuquerque. I have friends over there. Bunch of gossips.”

“I see,” I answer measuredly.

I turn back to my cup, pulling it from underneath the Keurig spout and moving to the canisters where we keep the cream and sugar.

“He’s still considering,” I finally say, as carefully as I can. “We’re . . . still talking about it.”

Which is entirely untrue since I have absolutely no say in the matter. The knowledge of that is hitting me full force at this moment, and it leaves me with a strange feeling. One that’s . . . unsettling. With a wrinkled brow I stir my coffee, forgetting for a second or so that Dennis is even here until he speaks again.

“Ah, well. I know we’d certainly miss our resident genius. Plus, I can imagine it would be hard for you if he took the job.”

But I don’t know that. It’s possible—probable—that he will.

Why does my chest feel so tight?

I hide my tumultuous emotions with a slow sip from my cup, my eyes focused on the warm liquid as I manage a half shrug. “I’m sure Noah will come to the best decision.”

“He always does,” Dennis replies with that smile that is starting to make my skin crawl.

“Right.” I tip my mug in his direction, needing to get out of this room. “Anyway. Better get back to it. Have some things to finish up before I go home.”

“Of course, of course,” Dennis says with a wave. “Good to see you again, Mack.”

I nod, because I can’t possibly return the sentiment, escaping the lounge with my cup in hand as I release a measured breath. I really, really don’t like that guy. I can see why Noah doesn’t either.

Thoughts of Noah tug at something inside, Dennis’s talk of the possibility of Noah moving and the reminder that it’s been a possibility since this . . . thing we’re doing started—it causes a twinge in my chest that doesn’t go away even when I rub my hand there. If my mood weren’t suddenly so dour, I’d be texting Noah making a joke about needing a consultation. As it is, I walk in the direction of the nurses’ station with slow steps, my thoughts scattered, bouncing around in my head with nowhere to settle.

I can imagine it would be hard for you if he took the job.

It’s funny, until Dennis said it . . . it never occurred to me that it would be.

“This show is completely inaccurate.”

I grin at Noah from my side of my small couch, fighting the urge to laugh at his disgusted expression aimed toward my television.

“It’s not supposed to be accurate,” I tell him. “It’s supposed to be dramatic.”

He makes an indignant sound, folding his arms across his chest and spreading his legs out further in front of him in a move that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. My couch isn’t the largest piece of furniture out there, but with Noah on it, it looks downright small.

It’s been days since my run-in with Dennis, and I haven’t been able to make myself bring any of it up to Noah. It’s our first shared day off since the weekend I stayed over, and I’m not exactly dying to ruin it with talks about his least favorite person at the hospital or my growing insecurities about what we are and what his possible new job might mean for . . . whatever this is. It doesn’t sound like a fun conversation in my head, and I can’t imagine it being any better spoken out loud.

And besides, I’ve realized these last few days that the possibility of bringing it up only for Noah to brush it off would be far more painful than it has any right to be. Because what if he gets freaked out that I’m even worrying about it? This entire thing between us was built on a lie, and just because he asked me on one real date doesn’t mean he’s ready to propose or anything.

Not that I want him to.

Jesus. My brain is a mess.

“Did you see that?” Noah points at the screen, his brow knitted together. “He just touched his arm after scrubbing up for surgery. That’s a contamination hazard!”

“I’m sure they were really worried about medical accuracy when writing Derek Shepherd’s character,” I laugh.

“And that woman is wearing earrings in an OR,” he grumbles. “Seriously, who wrote this shit?”

“You know, I’m starting to wonder why I thought it would be a good idea to watch this with you.”

He catches my eye, a sheepish half smile curving on one side of his lip. “Sorry.”

“Nah. You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”

He frowns. “I’m not cute.”

“I think so.” I scoot across the inches of couch that separate us, leaning into him to brush my lips across his cheek. “Adorable, really.”

He turns his face just enough to let my mouth catch at the corner of his. “Mhm.”

“We can watch something else.”

“It’s fine,” he murmurs. “I’ll try not to be too critical.”

“The day you stop being critical is the day I start worrying about your health,” I tease.

“My mother says something similar,” he huffs. “Often.”

“Oh? Your mom isn’t as . . . rigid as you are?”

I waggle my brows on the last word, and he rolls his eyes. “My mother doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” He eyes me speculatively. “She’s much more like you, if I’m being honest.”

“Like me?”

“You know . . .” He waves his hand in a circular motion, smiling. “Personable. Outgoing. Fun.”

“I think you’re lots of fun,” I tell him, trailing my fingers across the T-shirt stretched over his chest.

He snorts. “You’re probably the only one.”

“They just don’t get to see the sparkling personality you hide under all those frowns.”

“Right.” He chuffs out a quiet laugh. “My mother would adore you.”

For some reason his casual statement makes my pulse quicken. “You think?”

“Oh, definitely. She’s been badgering me to bring you to dinner for weeks.”

My heart is thundering now, and I can’t say why. “She has?”

He seems to realize what he’s said then, his eyes widening and his lips parting. “I . . . I mean . . . Don’t worry. I told her it wasn’t a good idea.”

“Oh.” My heart rate feels almost like it comes to a dead halt. Why am I so disappointed? “Right.”

“I just mean . . .” He looks flustered, like he doesn’t quite know what to say. “I only meant that I wouldn’t want to put you on the spot or ask you to do something you didn’t agree to when we started all of this.”

Something you didn’t agree to.

It’s like a gut punch, those five words, and I do my best not to let it show. Nothing he’s saying is untrue, or even unwarranted; logically, I know that just because we are wading into new territory, it doesn’t negate how we started out—but the lines that seem to be blurring are so muddled that I can’t figure out what’s what anymore. It leaves me feeling uncertain. Something I hate feeling.

I school my features, waving my hand in front of my face and doing my best to look unbothered. “It’s fine. You’re totally right. It would probably be weird.”

“Right . . .” His expression is hard to read, but for a second I can almost imagine a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but that doesn’t make sense. It’s gone as quickly as it comes. “Exactly. Especially since we’re in such . . . uncharted territory right now.”