“You’re doing so well,” she murmurs.
I let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh but is not. “They don’t think that.”
She does not hesitate. “I do.”
Her hand moves up to my jaw, thumb brushing along the edge of it. “That’s the one opinion that matters.”
I kiss her. There is no build-up. No hesitation. It just happens.
My mouth finds hers and the restraint I have been holding onto all day snaps quietly. It is not frantic but it is not gentle either. It is the kind of kiss that has been waiting. The kind that carries all the words I did not say and all the things I swallowed down.
She kisses me back just as firmly. Her hands fist in the fabric of my scrubs like she needs proof I am real, like she needs to anchor herself to me. The material wrinkles under her grip. Her lips are warm and familiar and for a second the hospital disappears completely. I tilt my head slightly and she follows. We fit. We always have.
Her fingers slide up to the back of my neck and she pulls me closer. My hands leave the wall and find her waist instead. I feel the shape of her under my palms.
“Five minutes,” she whispers against my mouth.
Her breath brushes my lips when she speaks. It makes my stomach tighten.
“I know,” I say, though my sense of time has already slipped.
She smiles against me. I can feel it. “We’ll be efficient.”
I let out a quiet laugh, breathless, and press my forehead to hers again. My nose brushes hers. It is almost ridiculous how much I need this.
“This is wildly inappropriate,” I murmur.
She hums softly, hands still at my neck. “You’re still here.”
I kiss her again, slower this time. Not urgent. Just feeling. The curve of her lower lip. The way she sighs when I pull her closer. My thumb traces absent patterns at her hip. Her nails scrape lightly at the back of my neck and I feel it all the way down my spine.
There is a faint sound outside the door somewhere down the corridor and we both freeze for half a second, listening. But it’s nothing.
My heart is beating harder than it has all day and not from running around all day. I pull back just enough to look at her properly. Her hair has fallen slightly loose around her face. Her lips are a little swollen. There is colour in her cheeks.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” I say quietly.
She tilts her head. “You love trouble.”
I can’t even argue with that. Her hands smooth down the front of my scrubs, straightening them instinctively. The gesture is almost domestic. Almost tender in a way that makes my throat tight.
“Look at you,” she says, brushing invisible lint from my shoulder. “Saving lives and pretending you don’t care what they think.”
I shake my head slightly. “I don’t.”
“You do.”
She is right. I do.
“I hate when they talk to you like that,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I know.”
“I wish I could say something,” she says, and I hold back a laugh. She begs me every week and I always tell her no. I need to fight my own battles. If I have my girlfriend running to my rescue, they’ll never respect me.
“You already do,” I tell her. “You say it to me.”
Her eyes hold mine and there is so much in that look it makes my chest ache.
