Preston repeats the address into the phone. “Overnight delivery. 8:00 AM to 11:00 AM window.” He taps the screen with a decisiveclick. “Placed.”
He drops the phone back onto the rug and flops back down onto my chest, pulling the duvet up to his chin.
“You are ridiculous,” I say, wrapping my arm around him. “You know that?”
“I am caffeinated,” he corrects, nuzzling into my neck. “Or I will be tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I realize, looking at the ceiling. “I’m off. You’re off.”
Preston hums happily. “Exactly. We can sleep in. We don’t have to move until the delivery guy buzzes. And thenyoucan go down and get it, because I’m not wearing pants until Monday.”
I smile, tightening my hold on him. The radiator clanks again, louder this time.
“Deal,” I say.
Preston lets out a long sigh, his breathing already evening out. “Hey, Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“Best date ever.”
I kiss his temple, closing my eyes. The city noise outside seems far away.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Best date ever.”
For the first time in a long time, the silence isn't heavy.It’s full.
PRESTON
7:00 AM.
The light coming through the window is aggressive. It’s unfiltered, orange-hued, and accompanied by the sound of a garbage truck backing up with the auditory subtlety of a dying dinosaur. It is the antithesis of the blackout curtains and triple-paned soundproofing at the York Penthouse.
I love it.
I am lying on my side, staring at the back of Lucas Silva’s head. He is asleep. He sleeps like he does everything else: efficiently. Still, deep breaths, taking up exactly his fair share of the mattress.
I carefully lift the duvet. My body feels… used. In the best possible way. There’s a delicious, heavy ache in my hips and a soreness that reminds me, vividly, of exactly how dominant the Chief Resident can be when he takes his tie off.
I need to pee. And I need to brush my teeth. And, crucially, I need to curate the "I Woke Up Like This" aesthetic, because right now I suspect I look less like a Sleeping Beauty and more like a raccoon that got caught in a wind tunnel.
I slide out of bed. The floor is cold.
I tiptoe to the bathroom, closing the door with a click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. I wince, waiting for Luke to stir. Silence. Good.
I unlock my phone. The screen is blinding.
I open the group chat named"SURGICAL TRAUMA (AND PRESTON)"which Jax created last week despite Maxwell’s three distinct formal protests.
Maxwell York(6:47 AM):
Preston. Proof of life required immediately. Father is vibrating with rage. If you have been murdered in Queens, please reply ‘Y’ so I can clear your browser history.
Dr. Jax O’Connell(6:52 AM):
He’s not dead, Max. He’s just otherwise occupied. Leave the kid alone. Let him have his morning wood in peace.
Maxwell York(6:53 AM):
