No you're not
Zane:You're right. I'm not. I'd burn down the whole world to keep you
Good thing I'm already pre-burned then. Like a vaccination against destruction
Zane:Tomorrow?
Tomorrow. Bring terrible decisions and that dick that makes me forget I have a medical degree
Monday arrives like a hangover—inevitable, unpleasant, and tinged with regret that tastes suspiciously like terrible decisions and cum I can still feel dried on my thighs despite two showers. I'm at work, trying to be a functional medical professional while my personal life is having a multi-system organ failure. Miguel hasn't responded to any texts—the silence feels like a flatline on the EKG of our relationship. My coworkers keep giving me looks that suggest the hickey I tried to cover with concealer is about as subtle as a code blue.
I spend the morning hyperaware that I'm probably ovulating. My cervical mucus has the consistency of egg whites (peak fertility, my medical brain supplies helpfully while my vagina plans a coup), my basal body temperature is elevated, and I can literally feel my ovary releasing an egg like a biological time bomb.
And then Zane texts.
Third floor supply closet. Five minutes
I'm working. Also probably ovulating. This is epidemiologically stupid
I need you
Three words. That's all it takes for my professional resolve to flatline. My ovaries are practically doing the wave.
This is the kind of stupid that ends up in medical journals as a cautionary tale
The stupidest. Five minutes
I make an excuse about inventory, check that Catherine Walsh is nowhere near the third floor, and take the stairs like I'm responding to a medical emergency. Which, given the way my body is already responding—increased heart rate, elevated blood pressure, vaginal lubrication that's definitely not professional—might be accurate.
He's already there when I slip inside, and the look on his face—desperate, hungry, slightly feral—makes my knees weak and my medical brain calculate pregnancy probabilities (20% per cycle with optimal timing, we're so fucked).
"This is about Miguel," I say, but I'm already moving toward him like an ion to its opposite charge.
"This is about needing you so badly I can't think," he corrects, pulling me against him. His hands are already under my scrub top, finding skin that's hypersensitive—probably from the progesterone surge, my medical brain notes, while my nipples stand at attention like eager students. "About not being ableto focus on anything except how you felt yesterday. How you tasted. The sounds you made when—"
I kiss him to shut him up, because if he keeps talking, I'm going to do something really stupid like fall in love with him in a supply closet that smells like industrial disinfectant and broken dreams.
"We have to be quick," I gasp when he starts kissing down my neck, finding that spot that makes my brain emit static and my vagina compose symphonies. "And quiet. And we need to use—"
"Fuck," he groans against my throat. "I didn't bring anything."
"Me neither." We stare at each other—me, a medical professional who knows exactly how pregnancy happens, who can recite conception statistics in my sleep; him, a dangerous man who probably doesn't care about luteal phases and implantation windows—both disasters who are definitely going to do it anyway. "We could just—"
"Touch each other?" he suggests, but his hands are already pushing my scrubs down with the efficiency of someone who's been thinking about this. "Be responsible adults who make good choices?"
"When have we ever been that?" I counter, and then his fingers are between my legs, finding me already embarrassingly wet—cervical mucus production increases during ovulation, my brain supplies helpfully while my vagina celebrates. "Oh fuck, I'm definitely ovulating. I can feel it. This is so stupid."
"Turn around," he growls, and the command in his voice makes me clench around nothing while my ovaries release a celebratory egg like a reproductive confetti cannon.
I turn, bracing my hands on the shelf, and hear his belt buckle—that specific sound that means we're about to be incredibly, catastrophically, reproductively stupid. My vagina is practically rolling out a red carpet for his sperm.
"We shouldn't—" I start, but then I feel him against me, hot and hard and bare, and my body makes an executive decision that overrides all common sense and medical training. "Oh, fuck it. My egg is probably already halfway down my fallopian tube anyway."
He pushes into me in one smooth thrust, and we both freeze, overwhelmed by the sensation. No barrier. Nothing between us. Just skin and terrible decisions and my extremely fertile reproductive system welcoming his genetic material like it's been waiting for this specific disaster.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes against my shoulder. "You feel—without anything—fuck, Lena. You're so wet."
"That's cervical mucus," I gasp, my medical brain unable to shut up even while being fucked. "Peak fertility consistency. Basically nature's sperm superhighway. We're so fucking stupid."
