Right. Hospital. Responsibility. Reality.
This is not the moment. You don’t drop a life-altering revelation on someone when they’re calculating commute time. So, I swallow it down again. “Text me later?”
“I will.”
He stands, and the air shifts immediately. He lingers by the door. That’s what undoes me. He doesn’t rush out like someone eager to get back to his life. He stands there with his hand on the doorknob like he’s trying to convince himself to use it.
“You have to go.” I get up and meet him by the door.
“I’m aware.”
I can’t help smiling at him. “You’re a doctor. People depend on you for doctoring.”
“Yes.”
“Patients.”
“I know.” He exhales slowly and leans his forehead briefly against the doorframe like it personally offended him. “If I don’t say it out loud, I might not leave, so maybe if I don’t say it at all?—”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “That’s not how work works.”
“It is for me.” There’s something deeply endearing about the way he’s arguing with himself. Like he’s reminding his body that it belongs elsewhere for the next twelve hours.
He steps closer instead of farther away. His hands settle at my waist. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re considering something.”
But I am. I am considering blowing up both of our lives in this doorway.
Instead, I rise onto my toes and kiss him. His hand slides up my back, fingers threading into my hair. He makes a low sound against my mouth that sends heat straight down my spine.
I want him back in my bed. I want to forget the hospital. Jason. The world. Everything except for this.
He pulls back first. That’s how I know he’s the disciplined one. “I have to go,” he says again, quieter now.
I nod.
He takes one last long look at me, like he’s memorizing me.
Every sweet look, every touch, every kiss, the guilt grows. For a split second, I almost say it.Damian, wait.
But he’s already stepping outside, and I let him go. The door closes. The quiet afterward is violent. It’s so silent that it hurts. I stand there for a full ten seconds, staring at the empty doorway like he might walk back through it and demand a do-over.
He won’t. He has a shift. He has patients. He has a life that does not revolve around my inability to form a complete sentence when it matters.
I press my back against the door and slide down slowly until I’m sitting on the floor. I should have told him.
You had the moment. Coffee. Sunlight. Eggs. Instead, you kissed him.
I press my palms against my eyes. “Oh, shut up.” I push up and walk into the living room. The bassinets stare back at me like silent witnesses.
They’re painfully empty. I grab my phone. You can bring the boys home anytime.
Now good?
Yes, please.
