I open my door and climb out, coming around to open hers, too.
“Better lead the way then, Havoc.”
Upstairs, her apartment is quiet and softly lit, the kind of space that feels as though it belongs to someone who’s rarely here long enough to settle. She kicks off her heels near the door, toeing them aside, then turns back to me.
“Okay,” she says, gesturing to the open-plan space. “Welcome to… this.”
My attention drifts, catching on the plants scattered around the room—or what used to be plants.
“You know most of these are dead, right?”
She winces, hanging back by the kitchen counter and draping my jacket over a chair. “They were alive when I bought them.
“Ah,” I say gravely. “A classic case of false advertising.”
She flips me off, but she’s smiling. My eyes linger on hers, but then I see something green out of the corner of my eye—succulents on the windowsill, still healthy-looking.
“Those must be new,” I note, moving across the room to take a closer look.
She tracks my movements. “Yeah. You said low maintenance was key.”
Something warm settles in my chest.
“You listened to me, huh?”
She shrugs, suddenly shy. “Only fair. You listened to me—begrudgingly—about your pre-op stuff.”
I turn back to face her. She’s still leaning on the kitchen counter, a whole room between us, but I want her closer.
She’s too young for me, too off-limits. I’ve spent weeks trying to do the right thing—letting her lead, keeping my distance.
But I’ve also memorized the sound of her laugh, something she doesn’t let everyone hear, and her favorite coffee order, and the exact moment her professional mask slips to show the softnessunderneath. And now I think I’m too fucking far gone to pretend that doesn’t mean something.
I take one step toward her, and she notices, the humor draining away and suddenly replaced by something heavier.
“Come here,” I say quietly.
“We shouldn’t,” she says, a laugh in her voice that doesn’t quite hide the truth underneath. But she takes a step toward me anyway.
“Agreed.” I nod, taking another step. “You’re younger than me.”
“A non-issue.” She bites her lip, moving closer. “Butyou’remy patient.”
Another step.
“Technically,” I say, my eyes tracing over her face, “not anymore.”
“I’m still your surgeon. Or I was. Which makes this… reckless. And unprofessional.”
I nod once with another step. “It does.”
“And yet, you’re still coming closer,” she adds.
“Terrible self-control,” I murmur.
Another step.
“Chronic,” she shoots back, eyes flicking briefly to my mouth.
