Theapartment’stooquiet.
Not peaceful—lonely.
The silence amplifies everything I’ve come to miss.
I’m still in the pencil skirt I swore I’d change out of two hours ago, slumped sideways on the couch with my blouse half-unbuttoned and my laptop burning a hole into my thighs.
The only sound is the occasional ping of my inbox, which I ignore at this late hour.
A bag of Thai food sits untouched on the counter. I’m not hungry. It’s not fun to eat alone. Not anymore.
It’s been several weeks since Seamus and I detonated every last rule we set between us. Two months of eye contact to make my stomach flip. Orgasms that should be illegal. Most of all, intimacy with an incredible man has snuck in the back door and I'll never be the same.
Over the holidays we lived in a suspended state of domesticity. Soft, rainy mornings and long showers. Sex whenever we wanted. Snuggling together like the world didn’t exist outside my high-rise. In the new year, he moved in without a conversation. First, his toothbrush and toiletries. Then a selection of hoodies, graphic Ts and jeans. Now piles of scrubs are neatly stacked and tucked into the corner of my closet.
Effortless.
Sadly, the past couple of weeks have been different. Seamus is practically a ghost.
Even though IthoughtI understood the pressure he was under, I was very, very wrong. The neurosurgery program doesn’t mess around. His schedule is brutal—lab work for much of the day, as many elective surgeries as he can manage, not to mention coursework, seminars, rounds.
To add to his stress, Caldwell is pretending Seamus doesn’t exist. It's been two full months of silent treatment. Punishment, I guess. Abstractly, I figured this would happen when Seamus decided to cooperate with me. And while I don't think he'd change a thing, I feel guilty. His career is in jeopardy because of me.
On top of everything, his brother, Cillian entered rehab a week ago. Seamus carries the weight like it’s his fault.
So, yeah. Things feel different. Heavier.
Our bubble sure didn't last long.
What's worse is my schedule isn't any better. A new case has me tangled up in surgical malpractice hell once again. This time a botched facelift has turned into a PR nightmare for a tech billionaire’s wife. Her face is not only deformed, it won't move at all. Between the surgeon's gaslighting campaign and her husband spiraling into scary rages, I’m caught between legal firestorms and my own moral compass.
I find myself wondering, is this any way to live?
I glance at the time. Already past ten. Again.
The door clicks. The sound sends something warm through my whole body. He’s home.
Seamus walks in like a man at the end of a war—drenched hoodie clinging to him, scrub pants rumpled, hair flattened by a wet beanie. His eyes find mine, bloodshot and exhausted, but there’s a flicker.
Every time he looks at me, it feels like a promise whispered across lifetimes.
“Hey.” His face lights up as I cross the room before he can take another step.
Seamus drops his bag with a thud and folds into me. His arms slide around my waist and he buries his face in my neck.
I rub my hands up and down his biceps. “You’re soaked.”
“Ah, it’s nothing. You know the drill, we’re native. Umbrellas are for wussies.” He smirks.
I laugh under my breath. “Seattle: where dreams go to mildew.”
We stand there for a long moment, breathing the same air. I hold him a little tighter. He lets me.
“Sixteen hours?” I mutter and scatter kisses on his jaw.
“Yup.” He steps back and smooths my hair away from my face. “Caldwell passed me three times today. I could’ve lit myself on fire and he still wouldn’t have looked at me.”
I search his face. “Do you want to eat?”
