His eyes flashed with something akin to curiosity. “You don’t think our lives have meaning?”
“I didn’t say that.” I didn’t mean that, at least. Especially not for him. “I guess I always thought healing would be the greatest gift. To help somebody.”
“There are lots of professions that do that, hypothetically,” he said, licking the whipped cream from between the tines.
I nodded. “I actually started out in a nursing program.”
“Nice,” he said. “Why’d you pivot to med school?”
I shrugged. “Doctors didn’t have to deal with bedpans as often.”
He chuckled and squeezed my hip. “What’s the real reason, pigeon?”
I tucked myself under his arm, my gaze downcast. “I don’t know. I thought I could make a bigger difference, order tests for people who felt like no one cared about them. But there’s so much I can’t fix in my own life right now. I shouldn’t be trusted with anyone else’s. I’ll have to leave that honor to the tough cookies like yourself who can handle a night shift,” I said, nuzzling morosely into his neck. “Take care of them for me.”
Angel squeezed me and sighed. “Such a bleeding heart, pidge.”
“I guess so. Even my pancakes bleed.” I pointed out how a strawberry had stained the center of our pancakes red.
He kissed my shoulder and waited until I met his darkened gaze to speak. “I love that you care so much, Tori. When things get tough, I tend to shut down, go numb, and eventually, do something risky to feel anything besides the low-key angst gnawing at me.”
“What do you mean ‘risky?’” I hedged, my mind racing with made-for-TV movie references to drug dens and seedy strip clubs.
He squinted at the ceiling. “I’d…dance with a stranger, on occasion.”
I winced at the idea of him close to anyone besides me. “I bet they stepped on your toes. That’d make you feel something,” I mumbled, trying to digest what he was telling me.
“I much prefer dancing with you, pidge,” he said, twirling the ends of my hair. “You make me feel more than anything else has, like I could be a good man.”
“I don’t thinkI’mthe deciding the factor in that,” I said, cleaning some jam from his lip. “Besides, you’re already a good man. You’re my angel.”
He reeled me closer. “And you’re my sweet, sensitive pigeon.”
“Sensitive?” I jerked back.
He laughed, the force of it like a pleasant shock to the chest. “It’s a good thing,” he swore.
“Maybe in bed,” I grumbled.
“That is one benefit.” He grinned. “And, tomorrow, we’ll be sharing a bed.”
“Yep. I’d better shave my legs and repack my bag.”
He shrugged. “You can borrow my stuff. Or wecouldhang out naked all day.”
I gestured widely to the living room. “You have a white couch.”
“I have blankets and a hot girlfriend,” he said.
Oh my gosh, he thought I was hot.
Blushing, I offered him a dollop from the whipped cream massacre on the crook of my finger. “Hopefully, we won’t make as much of a mess at your mom’s.”
“No promises.” He sucked my finger clean, the pressure and caress of his tongue so intense he could’ve checked my heartrate.
This man and all these new feelings were going to send me into cardiac arrest or make me the strongest I’d ever been.
But based on how committed we were to caring for each other—and ourselves—I thought we had a great prognosis.
