“Well,” I said, feigning nonchalance, “your money ismymoney, so—”
Before I could finish, his mouth was on mine, like he’d decided that was the most efficient way to shut me up. Heat fired through me so fast my brain short-circuited mid-sarcastic comment, somewhere betweenyour money is my money, andI win every argument. He drew back just long enough to peel off his wonky glasses and immediately swooped back in.
I barely managed a breath against his lips. “That’s one way to win an argument.”
His smug smile brushed my cheek. “Only way you’ll ever let me.”
The months apart hit me all at once—the distance, the missing, the longing. My pregnancy hormones took over, and I dropped his duffel, fisting the front of his shirt and pulling him closer until there wasn’t an inch of air left between us. His hands slid to my waist, my back, my arms, everywhere at once.
My pulse thudded in my ears. “You’re supposed to be recovering.”
He chuckled into my mouth. “I am. Very hands-on treatment plan, Doctor.”
“Hands-on, huh?” I said, but the words came out breathless.
“Best kind of medicine.”
I rolled my eyes, but it didn’t matter—he was already kissing me again while simultaneously removing my layers. The world around us blurred; the soft hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the floorboards as he pushed me toward the couch, all fading until it was just him and me and the burning desire between.
His thumb stroked my jaw, and I felt my chest loosen into a peace I hadn’t felt since the last time I saw him.
“Welcome home,” I whispered.
“This apartment isn’t my home, Lillian,” he said. “You are.”
THE CLOCK READ THREEa.m.
Khalifa had been quiet for a while, his body curled around me. One of his arms was draped over my waist, his leg tangled with mine like he was afraid I might disappear in my sleep.
I stared at the ceiling, tracing faint lines across his shoulder blades. I remembered how he used to strictly sleep on the left side of the bed, leaving the right side of the mattress perfectly smooth and untouched. But now, no matter how far apart we started, he always found his way back—inch by inch, shift by shift—until his body was pressed against mine like a magnet drawn home.
“Khalifa?”
For a second, I thought he’d fallen asleep. Then, muffled from somewhere under the pillow, came his voice, low and drowsy. “We’re already having a sleepover, Lillian.”
I smiled. “Don’t pretend you didn’t look forward to all my sleepover requests.”
He cracked an eye open. “I did. But I preferthesesleepovers—where you’re not talking nonsense or wearing any clothes.”
“You yap about dead people for a living, butI’mthe one who talks nonsense?”
“Yes,” he said simply, a grin curling through the dark. “But I love your nonsense.”
I rolled my eyes and reached over, rifling through my bag. “Good. Becauseyournonsense just earned you a neuro exam. I have to check your pupils.”
He groaned. “It’s three in the morning.”
“Concussions don’t keep business hours,” I said primly, clicking on my penlight. “Now, follow my finger.”
I leaned in, close enough to see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes, and he caught my hips with both hands and pulled me into a kiss so sudden and passionate it knocked every coherent thought clean out of me.
I gasped against his mouth, trying to hold on to some shred of professionalism. “This—” he kissed me again, harder this time, “—this is not appropriate patient behavior.”
He didn’t let go. “My doctor is irresistible,” he murmured. “What did you expect me to do?”
“Not that,” I said, though my voice wasn’t exactly the picture of authority.
His fingers skated lower, setting off sparks. “I’m very compliant in your care. Just...easily distracted.”
