He chuckles. “Sure you are.”
I shake my head, but I can’t stop smiling. “You read too much into things.”
“No,” he says gently. “I read people.”
The door opens behind me, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. My body reacts before my brain does—awareness sharpening, breath hitching slightly.
Colton steps into the room, calm and composed as ever, but his eyes find mine immediately. They linger. Just a second too long.
Frank notices. Of course he does.
“Well,” Frank says, clapping his hands once, “look at that. The room got tenser.”
Colton clears his throat. “Good morning, Frank.”
“Morning, Doc.” His gaze flicks between us. “You two look like you’re trying very hard notto smile.”
I busy myself with Frank’s chart. “You’re feeling better today,” I say quickly.
“I am,” he agrees. “Probably because whatever the hell is going on with you two is finally easing up.”
Colton shoots him a look. “Frank.”
Frank only grins. “Relax. I’m not asking for details. Only making an observation.” His eyes soften. “It’s good to see you both like this.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest ache … in a good way.
Later, when I’m walking back to the nurses’ station, I catch Colton’s reflection in the glass. He’s watching me, not hungrily, not impatiently. Just … curiously.
When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
That night, after a shower and a glass of wine, my phone buzzes on the counter.
Colton: You survived today.
I smile as I type back.
Me: Barely. Frank tried to psychoanalyze us.
Colton: He’s not subtle.
Me: No. But he’s kind.
There’s a pause. Then?—
Colton: He is. I’m glad you were there with him today.
Something about that—about us being there together—makes my stomach flutter.
Me: Me too.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Colton: I keep thinking about what you said the other night.
I lean against the counter, heart thudding.
