I’m used to compartmentalizing work, friends, sex, and solitude. Neat lines. Clean boundaries. Melissa has been blurring those lines since the moment she walked into the hospital as a nurse but tonight feels different.
Tonight, she’s in my world, and she fits.
At one point, she turns toward me, leaning close enough that I can smell her shampoo over the beer and the crowd. “Is he always like this?” she murmurs, nodding toward Sawyer as he gestures wildly mid-story.
“Yes,” I reply quietly. “It’s exhausting.”
She laughs softly, her shoulder brushing mine. The contact is brief, accidental in appearance only, but it sends a jolt through me all the same.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
She doesn’t notice—or pretends not to—and turns back to the group. I stay quiet for a minute, watching the way she talks with her hands, the way she smiles without thinking, the way she looks completely at ease, sitting between two men she met less than an hour ago.
This is not casual.
Not really.
Dean catches my eye across the table, a knowing flickering there. He doesn’t say anything, simply lifts his drink in a silent acknowledgment.
Sawyer, oblivious, launches into another story, and Kayla listens with thinly veiled skepticism. Melissa leans toward her, whispering a comment that makes Kayla snort.
“What?” Sawyer demands.
“Nothing,” Kayla says sweetly. “Just confirming a theory.”
“Which is?”
“That you love the sound of your own voice.”
Sawyer grins. “Guilty.”
Laughter breaks out again, easy and unforced. I find myself smiling without realizing it. I like Kayla. She can give Sawyer a run for his money. He needs that in his life.
She always seems like she’s fiercely protective of Melissa.
At some point, Melissa excuses herself to the bar for another drink. I follow a moment later under the guise of needing one myself.
She’s leaning against the counter when I stop beside her, her body angled toward me automatically, like this is already a habit.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “Yeah. I’m having fun.”
“I’m glad.”
She studies me for a second, her gaze searching, but not probing. “You look … different tonight.”
“Different how?”
“Relaxed,” she says. “Like you’re not bracing for impact.”
The bartender slides our drinks toward us, and I wrap my hand around the glass, buying myself a second before answering.
“I didn’t realize I was doing that,” I admit.
She smiles softly. “You used to.”
There’s no accusation in her tone. Just observation.
