I stare at the screen, smiling like an idiot, and it hits me how quickly she’s become my relief. My exhale. My escape.
That’s dangerous. That’s exactly why I should stop. And it’s exactly why I don’t.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Melissa
By Wednesday, it’s impossible to pretend this isn’t becoming a thing. Not a relationship. Not anything with a label. Just … us. And it’s happening with a frequency that surprises me.
A text here. A late-night call there. Hands on my hips more often than not. And still no sex. Somehow, that makes everything feel sharper.
I’m halfway through reheating leftovers when my phone buzzes on the counter.
Colton: Still awake?
I smile before I can stop myself.
Me: Barely. I’m negotiating with my couch.
The reply comes fast.
Colton: I have wine and terrible self-control. Your presence may improve one of those things.
I laugh quietly, grabbing my coat. Thankfully, Kayla is out, or she’d likely quiz me about what it means that he’s now asking me to come over so casually on a Wednesday.
Twenty minutes later, I’m buzzing myself into his penthouse like I’ve done it a dozen times already. He tells me his door is open, so I turn the knob and let myself in.
Before I realize what’s going on, he appears in front of me and pulls me into a kiss.
No hesitation. No pretense.
His hands slide to my waist, steady and familiar, and he kisses me like it’s already habit. Slow. Deep. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask permission because it already knows the answer.
I exhale into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“Hi,” I murmur against his mouth.
“Hi,” he replies, smiling slightly before kissing me again.
We don’t make it far from the entryway before he’s guiding me toward the couch. Not pushing but directing. I sink down beside him, my legs tucked under me, his arm draped easily along the backrest behind my shoulders.
Comfortable. That’s the word that keeps surprising me.
We talk. About work, about a resident he’s convinced is going to be brilliant if she ever learns to stop apologizing topatients, about Trudy declaring war on the hospital vending machine.
“She threatened to unplug it,” I say, laughing. “Called it ‘a menace to morale.’”
Colton chuckles. “She’s not wrong.”
At some point, his fingers start tracing absent-minded patterns along my arm. Nothing intentional. Nothing pointed.
My body reacts anyway.
I shift closer without thinking, my shoulder brushing his chest. His arm tightens a little—a silent acknowledgment.
The TV murmurs in the background, ignored.
When he kisses me again, it’s more exploratory. His mouth lingers at my jaw, my neck, sending heat spiraling low in my stomach.
