Lane doesn’t stop me as I close the last inches betweenus. The kiss starts gently, a brush of lips against lips. But it deepens quickly, hungry and needy with everything we’ve been fighting.
Her hand grabs my shirt, dragging me closer until there’s no space left between us. The kiss is deep, open-mouthed, her breath hot against mine. Years collapse in an instant, all the distance gone.
She breaks just enough to speak, lips brushing mine. “Woody… if we’re doing this again, it has to be different.”
I nod, though my mouth is already back on hers, tasting, taking.
Her hips shift under my hand, and she gasps. “No. Listen.” Her fingers curl in my hair, tugging hard enough to make me still. Her eyes burn into mine. “I can’t survive you putting work first every time. Not again. I can work with you, but we need boundaries. Real ones. Or this is nothing but heat and history.”
Her words slice through the fog, sharp as a scalpel. Boundaries. That word is still echoing when my brain flashes to Dr. Russell’s call, the offer that would chew me up and spit me out. The job every surgeon in my field would kill for.
I push the thought down, pressing my forehead to hers. “I swear to you, Lane. I’ll find a way. A way to honor both—who I am in the OR, and who I am with you. With us.”
She softens under me, her lips parting in a shaky exhale.
I kiss her again, harder this time. My hand slides under her shirt, skimming hot skin, her breath hitching. She arches against me, grinding through denim, a low moan vibrating in her throat.
Her words tumble out between gasps. “God, Woody. You make me crazy.”
I growl into her mouth, the taste ofher undoing me. Her nails rake my back through my shirt, hips rolling in time with mine. The refrigerator door gives under the weight, and for a moment, the years fall away. We’re reckless, young, starving for each other.
"Maybe I like crazy."
And then footsteps sound upstairs, and I stop cold. The squeak of the top stair.
“Mom?” Sanders’s small, uncertain voice cuts through the haze.
Lane shoves at my chest, eyes wide, panic and desire warring in her face. She’s out from under me in seconds, hair mostly falling out of her rubber band, shirt tugged down, trying to look composed.
I rake a hand over my face, my body still burning, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Go,” she whispers fiercely, smoothing her shirt as Sanders’s shadow stretches down the hall. “Please, Woody. Not tonight.”
Her voice is steady, but I can still taste her kiss, still feel her pulse against mine.
I have no idea how I’ll prove it, but I know one thing for certain—I have to put her and Sanders first.
TWENTY-THREE
Lane
Steam rises from my coffee mug, swirling into the air like my thoughts. The Christmas garlands framing the café windows catch the morning light, casting tiny shadows across Jerry's familiar face. He sits across from me, his hands flat on the table, waiting.
I've never been good at these conversations.
"I appreciate you meeting me," I say, keeping my voice as clear and sure as possible.
Jerry's eyes are kind blue eyes I once found them so comforting. "You seemed different on the phone. Like you needed to say something."
The espresso machine hisses behind the counter. A bell chimes as the door opens, letting in a blast of cold air. I wrap my fingers tighter around my mug, seeking warmth that doesn't come.
"I felt like I owed you this. I know we broke up almost three months ago, but it still felt like we needed closure."
Jerry nods slowly. I've always appreciated that about him, how he listens, how patient he can be.
"Closure," Jerry says gently, interrupting my thoughts. "That's what this is."
I nod, appreciating his frankness. Jerry has been there for Sanders in ways Woody couldn't be. School plays when Woody was in surgery. Baseball games, when emergencies called him away.
