The kettle whistles, a piercing shriek that mirrors the one building in my own chest. Zachary pours the steaming water into the mug, stirs it carefully, and slides it across the counter to me. My hands are trembling as I wrap them around the warm ceramic.
“They said I’ll have to wait another week for the biopsy results,” I say, and the words are a torrent rushing out of me, unstoppable. “A week. Like it’s nothing. Like I’m just supposed to go about my life—teach my classes, grade my papers, sit in pointless meetings—with this… thisthinghanging over my head. Are my kidneys failing? Are they not? Just let me know so I can deal with it, you know? But no. I have to wait. And this new medication is making me so damn tired I can barely think straight. I feel like I’m moving through Jell-O all day, and my head is full of cotton, and then Trevor dumping all of this extra work on us today. I’m so angry I could scream. And my mom… I called to tell her and my dad about having to go to the hospital. Of course she made the whole thing about herself. She calledmeselfish and asked if I had any pictures of myself from the hospital stay that she could paint.”
The words pour out, a messy, incoherent jumble of everything I’ve been holding inside. I’m pacing the small space between the kitchen and the living room, the forgotten mug of hot chocolate still clutched in my hands. I rant about my mother, work, the impossible-to-navigate insurance portal, and the pressure to pretend that everything is fine, that I’m fine, when I feel like I’m splintering apart from the inside out.
Through it all, Zachary just listens. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t offer solutions or tell me to calm down. He stands leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze never leaving my face. He listens with an intensity that makes me feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long time.
When I finally run out of steam, the silence that follows is thick with my spent emotion. I’m breathing heavily, my cheeks are wet with tears I didn’t even realize I was crying, and I feel utterly exposed. I wait for it. For the gentle dismissal.You’re overreacting. It’s probably nothing. You’re just stressed.The things people say when they don’t know what to say.
But Zachary doesn’t say any of that. He pushes off the doorframe and takes a step toward me. “That’s all bullshit,” he says, his voice low and firm. “You have every right to be angry. You have every right to be terrified. Waiting a week for results like that is torture. Trevor is a prick who is giving you too much extra work. And your mom… your mom is being clueless and unhelpful when you need her most. Everything you’re feeling is completely valid, Maya.”
My breath catches in my throat. He heard me. He actually heard me. He didn’t just hear the words; he heard the hurt and the fear and the rage beneath them.
He takes another step, closing the space between us. “So,” he says softly, his eyes searching mine. “What can we do? How can we get you through tonight? And how are we going to handle the next week, and everything at school?” He pauses, his gaze intensifying. “Specifically, what canIdo to help?”
We.He saidwe. And then,what can I do?
Something inside me shifts. The fear and anger don’t disappear, but they recede, replaced by a different kind of energy, a powerful current of want that zings through my entire body. For weeks, I’ve been operating on pure logic, navigating the treacherous waters of our shared workplace, but also ourshared attraction. That night we met at the bar and kissed on the sand dune and the night we kissed in front of our apartment building and then I pulled away, something to be analyzed and rationalized away. We’re colleagues. It was a mistake. It can’t happen again if we’re going to maintain a professional working relationship.
But tonight, I’m done with logic. I’m done with worrying about consequences and repercussions and what-ifs. All I know is that the man standing in front of me just offered me a lifeline, and I want to do more than just hold on to it. I want to wrap myself up in it. I want to wrap myself up inhim.
Just for tonight, I’m not going to think. I’m just going to act.
I set the mug down on the counter with a soft clink. I take the last step toward him, slide my hands up his chest, link them behind his neck, and pull his mouth down to mine.
I kiss him. And this time, it’s not a frenzied, desperate collision on the front steps of our apartment building. It’s deliberate. It’s a statement. I feel the surprise that stiffens his body for a half-second before he melts into it, his hands coming up to cup my face, his thumbs stroking my tear-stained cheeks. The kiss is soft at first, a question and an answer all at once. But I don’t pull away. There’s no panic, no sudden rush of regret. There is only a deep, resounding rightness.
I deepen the kiss, parting my lips, my tongue tracing his. A low groan rumbles in his chest, and his hands slide from my face down my back, pulling me flush against him. The flimsy barrier of our clothes does little to hide the heat of his body, the hard lines of his muscles. I feel alive, every nerve ending singing. I break the kiss only to hoist myself up so I’m sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter. Without a word, I part my thighs and pull him forward into the space between my legs. His hands find my hips, his fingers digging in slightly, and he presses into me, his mouth finding mine again.
This is where I want to be. This is the only thing that makes sense. I pull back just enough to speak, my voice a ragged whisper against his lips. “Do you want to go to my bedroom?”
His eyes are dark, his breathing as uneven as mine. I can see the battle raging in his head. The desire is there, plain as day, but so is the caution. The pragmatism.
“Maya,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine. “Are you sure? About this? What if… what if this just makes everything at work even more complicated? It’ll mean we’re hiding two secrets instead of one.” He starts to pull back, his hands loosening on my hips. “What if someone finds out? What if it messes up our friendship? What if?—”
I cut him off with another kiss, hard and demanding this time. I pour all my certainty, all my need into it. “I don’t care,” I breathe against his mouth when I finally let him up for air. “I don’t care about any of that right now.”
I can tell he needs more. He’s trying to be noble, trying to protect me, protect us, from a future mess. But I don’t want protection right now. I want him.
“Zachary, listen to me,” I say, my voice low and earnest, my hands framing his face so he has no choice but to look at me. “The second I pulled away from our kiss outside, I regretted it. I’ve wanted to do this, and more, every single day since then. Honestly, every day since our kiss on the beach the first night we met.” His eyes widen slightly, and I press on, needing him to understand. “You’re my friend. You’re my colleague, yeah, but you’re also the person I talk to about stupid memes and terrible days at work. You’re the person who listens to me. You’re the person I like spending time with more than anyone else.”
I take a shaky breath, laying the final, most vulnerable truth bare. “I don’t know what this is, and I don’t care what it becomes tomorrow. All I know is that right now, I really, really need it to be you.”
The last of his hesitation evaporates. The worry in his eyes is replaced by a raw, consuming want that mirrors my own. He dips his head, his lips brushing mine in a silent promise.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Me too.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Zachary
Her lips are soft and sure against mine and a groan rumbles in my chest, a sound I barely recognize as my own. One of her hands slides from my chest to my neck, fingers tangling in the short hair at my nape, while the other presses flat, right over my heart. I wonder if she can feel it trying to break out of my ribs.
I taste the faint, sweet trace of the hot chocolate I made for her, mingled with the simple, warm taste ofher. It’s intoxicating. My world narrows, shrinking until it’s only this: the warmth of her legs wrapped around my hips, the scent of her skin—like vanilla and something faintly floral—and the unbelievable, anchoring pressure of her mouth against mine.
I pull back, but only an inch. Just enough to see her. Her eyes are closed, her eyelashes dark crescents against her flushed skin. Her breathing is as ragged as mine.
“Zachary,” she whispers, and the sound of my own name on her lips is a new kind of undoing.
