"Ready?" he asks, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back—possessive but not controlling, a touch I've come to crave.
"Yeah. Just let me grab my bag from downstairs."
He nods, falling into step beside me as we head back to the examination room. "How was your day?"
"Three stitching jobs, one dislocated shoulder, and a concerning case of what might be pneumonia that I referred to an actual doctor." I grab my bag from under the desk, slinging it over my shoulder. "Yours?"
"Meetings with Blackwood. Security protocols for a new business venture." His tone is neutral, but I catch the slight tension in his jaw. Whatever this new venture is, it's not entirely legal.
I don't ask for details. We've established boundaries—he doesn't tell me anything that might compromise my future medical career, and I don't judge him for the choices he's made. It's an imperfect system, built on selective blindness and carefully maintained ignorance, but it works for us. For now.
The drive to his—our—apartment is quiet, comfortable. The evening traffic crawls along the city streets, but Ian navigates with practiced ease, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh. The casual intimacy of it still startles me sometimes—how easily we've fallen into these domestic patterns, how natural it feels to share space with him.
His apartment is in one of those renovated industrial buildings—all exposed brick and massive windows, the kind of place I could never have afforded on my own. The first time he brought me here, I'd been intimidated by the sleek, minimalist design, the expensive furniture that looked barely used. But over the weeks, I've left my mark—medical textbooks stacked on the coffee table, my favorite throw blanket draped over his leather couch, a plant I insisted on buying for the kitchen windowsill.
"You hungry?" he asks as we step inside, shrugging off his jacket and loosening his tie.
"Starving. But I need a shower first." The antiseptic smell of the examination room clings to my skin, a reminder of the day's work.
He nods, already moving toward the kitchen. "I'll start dinner."
I pause in the doorway, watching him roll up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with scars. The domesticity of the moment strikes me—this dangerous man making dinner while I shower, the easy rhythm we've established in such a short time.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing," I say, but the word comes out soft, almost tender. "Just... this. Us."
Something flickers in his eyes—vulnerability, uncertainty, emotions he's still learning to express. "Is that a problem?"
"No." I shake my head, smiling slightly. "The opposite, actually."
I don't wait for his response, turning instead toward the bathroom. Under the hot spray of the shower, I let myself think about the trajectory my life has taken—from struggling pre-med student to stripper to... whatever I am now. Blackwood's personal medic. Ian's lover. A woman caught between worlds, still figuring out where she belongs.
When I emerge, wrapped in one of Ian's shirts that falls to mid-thigh, the apartment smells like garlic and tomatoes. I follow the scent to the kitchen, where Ian stands at the stove, stirring something that looks suspiciously like actual homemade sauce.
"I love that you like to cook," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He glances over his shoulder, his eyes darkening as they take in my bare legs, the damp hair curling around my face. "There's a lot you don't know about me."
"Like what?" I move closer, peering into the pot. "What other hidden talents are you keeping from me?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I play the piano. Badly. I speak three languages. I can field strip a gun blindfolded."
"One of these things is not like the others," I tease, stealing a taste of the sauce with my finger. It's delicious—rich and complex, with a hint of heat. "Mmm. Definitely a hidden talent."
He catches my wrist before I can pull away, bringing my finger to his mouth and sucking the remaining sauce from it. The casual eroticism of the gesture sends heat pooling low in my belly.
"Dinner first," he says, releasing my wrist. "Then we can discuss my other talents."
We eat at the small table by the window, the city lights spread out below us like fallen stars. The conversation flows easily between us—my patients, his meetings, the book I'm reading, the documentary he wants to watch. Normal things, everyday things, as if we're just a regular couple sharing a meal instead of two broken people who found each other in the darkness.
After dinner, I check my email while Ian cleans up, a routine we've fallen into without discussion. My phone pings with a new message, and I open it absently, expecting another notification from one of my study apps.
Instead, I find myself staring at an official letterhead, the words blurring before my eyes.
Dear Ms. Young,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the School of Medicine at...
