“Yours,” she agrees, her hands caressing the side of my face. “Yes.”
We stay this way for a while—our bodies still joined, breath mingling in the quiet aftermath. Her fingers trace lazy patterns across my shoulder, and mine roam slowly over her curves. Almost like I’m trying to memorize her in this exact moment.
Because I am.
Eventually, she shifts with a soft sigh and I slip out.
She kisses my nose. “I need a shower.”
“Don’t be long,” I murmur.
I watch her pad naked across the room, unhurried and unbothered, the curve of her ass swaying like a silent victory. She’s not covering herself. Not glancing back to see if I’m looking. She’s bare. Beautiful.
She’s stopped trying to hide her naked body from me. Jesus, her newfound confidence does something to my heart.
Steam starts curling beneath the bathroom door within seconds. I lay there for a beat longer, letting the warmth of her body fade slowly from the sheets.
Then I follow.
Marcella doesn’t look surprised when I step in behind her, just smiles softly and lifts her face to let the water run down her cheeks. I wrap my arms around her from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck, and she leans into me without a word.
We don’t do much talking. Or washing. Mostly touching. Kissing. Letting ourselves linger in the quiet before the world starts moving again.
Eventually, we emerge clean and flushed, wrapped in towels and sleepy grins. Marcella tugs on a hoodie and leggings, her hair piled into a loose, wet knot. I pull on the same scrubs I’ve been rotating through for the past few days, too content to care I look like a med school dropout.
She moves toward the kitchen, and I trail after her lazily. The room smells like rain—wet pavement and winter air drifting in through the cracked-open window. Light slants in, watery and gray. A winter morning begging for coffee and slow starts.
Marcella busies herself at the counter, pulling mugs from the shelf, starting the French press. I settle at the kitchen table, watching her move.
For the first time in days, my breath hitches uncomfortably. Not from love. Not from lust. From the low, creeping ache of dread.
Real life is coming. Fast.
Three days from now, I’ll be back at the hospital, under Caldwell’s watch. I have no idea what the hell’s going to happen. What version of him I’ll be facing. The fallout waiting for me.
I’ve spent the last few weeks in a beautiful, fantastical bubble with Marcella. This morning, I can feel it thinning. Expanding. Ready to pop.
Marcella turns and catches me staring, her expression softening immediately. “Okay,” she walks over with the mugs, “you’re officially stressed. What’s going on in that brain of yours?”
“It’s January.” I take the mug from her and try to smile. “Caldwell’s back next week.”
Her brow furrows. “Do you think he’ll retaliate?”
“No idea,” I say honestly. “He hasn’t reached out. I haven’t spoken to him since the day he confronted me.”
Marcella’s quiet as she sips her coffee. Watching me. Not pushing. It’s one of the things I love most about her. She lets me work through things without jumping in to fix or soften. When I speak, she really listens.
“I’m not scared of him,” I say finally. “I don’t trust him. I’m not on board with pretending like nothing happened.”
Marcella sets down her mug and reaches across the table, curling her fingers around mine. “You don’t have to pretend, not with me. Not with yourself. You’ll figure it out as you go.”
I stare at our hands, the way her thumb brushes over my knuckles, and something in my chest loosens. “Thanks, baby.”
“You still love it, don’t you? Neurosurgery?” She tilts her head.
I nod. “I do. What happened with Miranda changed something. Not my love for the work, my tolerance for people who treat it like a god complex. I just want to do it right. Help people. Not become some asshole surgeon who thinks he’s above accountability.”
“You won’t. I know you won’t.” Her eyes soften.
