A file falls on the table with a clatter.

Clark stares silently at the neurologist.

A minute passes.

Only then does he notice Emily.

– Johnson, not wearing a robe again," he says in a low voice. – What, you forget where you work? With your history, I'm not surprised. How about…

Clark pulls the white cloth off the rack in one motion and throws it over his nurse's shoulders.

Emily takes a deep breath.

Her heart begins to beat desperately; it feels like it's about to burst through her chest, bursting out, falling to the floor as a bloody heap.

The robe still retained the warmth of Lorraine's body, even through the thin turtleneck. Emily pulls it down with her fingertips, letting it slip freely over her shoulders the way all adults do.

And it doesn't go away – it's still there, it's pulsating, it's jumpering; Lorraine says something to Moss, who looks at Emily angrily once more, but turns away; and she still stands there, the white neurosurgeon's robe, touch it, feel it, smell it – quinine, coffee, lemon. Tension, disruption, an uneven rhythm, dry lips in an instant.

Moss walks away, leaving Clark with a folder and a dozen more papers on top.

– Johnson," Lorraine exhales. – Where's the robe?

She still can't move, just squints and shakes her head rapidly; the touch of the fabric against her skin is so pleasant, too pleasant; and Clark, standing an inch away from her, has infinitely gray eyes with black eyeliner; long, stretching lashes to the sky; and ashy-pink lips that speak almost syllables:

– Are you not listening to me again?

– I'm sorry, I… I never bought it. I'm sorry.

The red-hot air subsides, his heart calms, his breathing becomes easier – Clark takes a step back and turns again to the open closet.

– You're lucky he doesn't have a name. – She points to the breast pocket of her robe. – Otherwise, Moss would have taken three skins off you.

– Excuse me.

Clark winks away in surprise:

– Drop it.

Here we go again.

Again.

It's impossible to breathe with Clark, as if the neurosurgeon needs to take all the oxygen from the world in order to breathe.

She changes moods, jumps from "you" to "you", gets angry – and then smiles a minute later; and Emily can't keep up with her, afraid, worried, but feeling the pull.

Clark is an ever-changing shell with an unbending inner core.

And fire.

She just has to say something, so Emily does the unauthorized, the wrong thing – she touches the neurosurgeon's shoulder with her fingertips and says nothing:

– I'm not worth it.

Clark smiles:

– I didn't say that.

* * *

She shouldn't.

She can't.

She doesn't know how.

But she stands in the locker room, inhaling the smell, burying her nose in the white medical gown Clark so kindly lent her for the rest of the day.

So Moss doesn't kill you.

The hirsute suit, unpacked, already on, smells wrong. The chemical, sterilized smell hits her nose, interrupts the lemon and lavender, and makes Emily want to strip naked and wrap herself up, wrap herself in the snow-white fabric.

She is flattering herself: just because it is power, it is fashionable, prestigious, rich; but inside, the first sparks of a fire have already been kindled.

That's just the affection she lacked; that damn admiration for someone, the idolatry, the awe. Clark is just a doctor.

She's just a nurse.

Her nurse.

The surgery is minutes away-the third operating room has been cleaned to a shine, and the instruments spread out on the tables have left a pleasant heaviness in her palms.

And now she's afraid. Scared. Ashamed.

And so she clings to her white coat, unable to control her emotions.

In a straight line.

Not to the bottom.

She locks the robe in her locker and walks out into the pre-op space, where Sarah helps her with her clothes and gloves.

Clark is already here, behind the glass – washing her hands, chatting intermittently with Gilmore standing next to her.