The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

10

After almost a full week of successfully dodging Doctor Crane, his presence manages to accost me in our familiar break room, amidst the smell of soup and coffee.

I place my coffee cup on the counter. I stare fixedly at the pink smear of lipstick on the rim.

"Miss Moore," he says quietly in greeting.

I clear my throat softly. "Doctor Crane."

He pauses and I wait, breath held in my chest.

"Hey, I got us a sandwich! Extra salami," Harleen beams, approaching with her tray. "Oh, hi Doctor Crane. Will you be joining us?"

"Thank you, Doctor Quinzel, but I have some paperwork to catch up on in my office."

"Oh. Another time," Harleen says.

We turn and head to the table before things can get more uncomfortable. "Wait," I say. "I forgot to fill my coffee."

I head back for the counter. Doctor Crane is still pouring his and so I wait, lingering a distance away, pretending to be immersed in the selection of fruit.

But then a smear of pink lipstick catches my eye.

On the rim of the coffee cup Doctor Crane lifts to his lips and drinks from.

He turns and leaves, none the wiser, while I'm stood gaping after him. It's not my fault he got the cups mixed up, I remind myself fiercely. There's no need for me to feel guilty. And it's not like I have cooties, or a cold.

But there's something about the exchange that feels strangely intimate. My lipstick against his lips. His tongue brushing against it gently while he drinks...

It dawns on me that, in a matter of minutes, he'll likely see the lipstick and realise what he's done.

That's mortifying enough I hurry back to my seat with Harleen, no longer thirsty for coffee if it means I might still be stood at the counter when Doctor Crane returns to throw the cup in the trash.

Not until ten minutes later, when a sprinkling of crumbs is all that remains of our sandwiches, does the possibility even cross my mind that it may have been deliberate.

I dismiss the thought as quickly as it arose.

"What the heck happened between you two?" Harleen asks.

"Nothing," I say quickly. Too quickly. "I'm just... reconsidering my dissertation."

She pauses, unwrapping the extra sandwich. "Did something happen between you?"

"It's research," I say, refusing to even remember, let alone discuss it. "What could happen?"

"You know," she emphasises. "Did you... get carried away and decide to make your own fear babies?"

I choke on my water. Coughing and spluttering until Harleen thumps me on the back, grateful for the excuse for the redness staining my cheeks.

"Of course not! That's... it would be entirely unprofessional."

"Hey, I wouldn't judge you."

"You're also not opposed to dating a patient."

"I never said that," Harleen insists. "I only said if I met the perfect guy, it wouldn't matter to me if he's an inmate."

"That's the same thing."

The sudden vibration of my phone in my coat pocket interrupts the conversation. I pull it free, swallowing nervously when I see it's Matt's mother calling.

And gulping when I see I've missed six calls already.

My stomach melts into a pool of dread before I even answer.