"We got time," he says, but his breathing's gone ragged. His hand skims down, tracing the waistband of my sleep shorts as though he's trying to talk himself out of pushing them down. "Ten minutes."
"Ten minutes is you ruining my hair and me showing up to triage looking like I got laid in the driveway. Again."
His grin is sharp and pleased. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"I have to be able to look my charge nurse in the eye, you menace."
He dips his head to my throat, teeth scraping lightly. His free hand slides under the hem of my shorts, palm hot against the back of my thigh.
"You know what I hate more than twelve-hour shifts?" he murmurs against my skin.
I swallow. "What?"
He sucks a mark into my neck, just under my ear, where only he will see it. "Twelve-hour shifts where I don't get to spend the first hour with my face between your legs."
Heat punches through me so fast I see spots. "Knox."
Half warning, half plea.
His hand squeezes my thigh once, fingers digging in, then he goes still. He breathes out a string of curses against my collarbone, as though he's actually in pain, and forces himself to pull back.
"Fuck," he says, sitting up on the edge of the bed, raking a hand through his hair. "Go. Before I do something that gets you written up."
I drag in a breath and sit up, tugging my shirt down. "You're ridiculous," I say, but my voice shakes enough that it doesn't land.
He looks over his shoulder, eyes flicking down my body and back up like he's cataloguing every inch for later. "And you're late, nurse. Move."
I shower fast, throw on my scrubs. Dark blue, clean lines, the top skimming my waist where his hands like to settle. When I come back out, he's in sweatpants and nothing else, leaning against the dresser, scrolling his phone.
His eyes snap up the second I step into the doorway. He pushes off the dresser and closes the distance, fingers hooking the waistband of my scrub pants, tugging me closer.
"You look hot," he says simply. "Hate everyone who's going to see you today."
"Jealous of my eighty-year-old regulars?"
"Jealous of your eighty-year-old regulars," he confirms, utterly serious.
I roll my eyes. "You're going to show up during my lunch and hover in the hallway like a creep, aren't you?"
"Damn right I am."
He steals another kiss, quick and hard with teeth, then lets me go, only because I shove my sneakers on and glance pointedly at my watch. At the door, I grab my bag and keys. He follows me onto the small front porch, bare feet on wood, arms folded across his chest.
"Bye, wife."
"Bye, husband," I say back softly.
For a heartbeat his face shifts, some mix of reverence and want and something larger he won't name, then he covers it with a crooked grin.
"Text me when you get there."
"Yes, sir," I mutter, heading down the steps.
I'm backing out of the driveway when I see it happen.
Knox's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, jaw tightening. He answers with a clipped, "Yeah. Knox."
The easy, teasing warmth drains out of his tone as though someone flipped a switch.
