I wanted to tell Tyler how I felt every single second. To grab his hand in the middle of the hallway, to say it out loud in front of anyone who dared to look our way. But I was taking it slow—for him, for his recovery, for my sanity. Because love like this came with history, with shadows. Still, it didn’t stop the ache from my wanting to be with him every second, hear his voice, and see that cautious smile when he let his guard down.
One night—a few days back—I’d found him asleep on the couch in the rec room, curled up with a blanket tangled around his legs and his ever-present notebook on his chest. I hadn’t meant tostop walking, to watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, but I did. And in that moment, all the quiet need and growing affection became something more. I wanted to love him, even if he didn’t say it back.
It was everything I could do not to pull him in and never let him go.
But it was a secret. Apart from Cole walking in on us—of all the people who could’ve interrupted, it had to be him—and Alex and Jazz knowing everything, we kept it close. Precious. Ours.
A knock at the medical room door pulled me from the quiet rhythm of restocking the bandages drawer. I called out, “Come in.”
Tyler stepped inside, and he didn’t get a full breath in before I had my hands on his hoodie and tugged him in the rest of the way, shutting the door behind him.
“Marcus…”
“Tyler,” I responded.
We stared at each other, and then, his mouth crashed into mine. Hot. Desperate.
He pressed me back to the door, his hands cradling my face as he took control, deep and messy and breath-stealing. We hadn’t figured out ourdynamic and didn’t care much beyond kissing, but he was confident when kissing me now.
“Fuck,” I gasped between kisses. “You can’t just walk in here and do this?—”
His lips caught mine again, cutting off the protest I didn’t mean.
“I needed to see you,” he muttered against my mouth.
“Are you okay? Are you ill?”
“No. And I waited as long as I could.” His hands slid into my hair, thumbs grazing my jaw. “For hours.”
His voice had that gravelly tension he always carried when trying to be chill and failing.
“You gonna stop talking?” I asked, tugging at the back of his hoodie to get him closer. “Because I’m working?—”
“You’re kissing me.”
I tilted my head, nipping at his bottom lip. “Multitasking.”
He groaned, his hand sliding down to my waist, fisting the hem of my scrub shirt. “You’re so sexy.”
“Tell me that again while I’m kissing you.”
He did. Between kisses. Each time a little breathier, a little less coherent.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and letmyself sink into him, right inside the door, the scent of antiseptic, clean linen, and Tyler filling the space between us.
I reached behind me when the kisses grew more heated, flicking the lock. “Just in case someone walks in,” I murmured.
He stilled for half a second, just long enough to press his forehead to mine, for the kiss to shift from hot and chaotic to something quieter, sweeter.
“I didn’t come here to do this,” he admitted. “I just needed to… I have…” He sounded so unsure, and damn it, that wrecked me.
I cupped his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, and kissed him slowly. “What do you need?”
“Kisses,” he whispered, then shook his head and extricated himself from my hold. “Advice.”
I kissed him one last time, and he smiled into the kiss, gripping my hips, and I melted again. “Advice about what?” I asked in a break between kisses, and that seemed to connect us to whatever sanity we had left.
He backed away with a rueful smile. “I wrote something, and I want you to help me because I don’t know what to say. I mean, I could talk about it in therapy, but this isn’t something I need to dissect; it’s something I need to do.” His smiledropped, and a familiar anxiety seeped into his expression. “Can you… it might not be appropriate now we’re…” He waved a hand between us. “But… I think I might be fucking this letter up because none of it is making sense in my head, and… yeah.”
