He laughs, low and easy. “You’re a doctor. Comes with the territory.”
“And you’re amusician. Aren’t drugs part of the job description?”
I curl into the couch, watching him bring over the bottle and two shot glasses. He hands me one; our fingers brush and linger a heartbeat too long before either of us lets go.
He sits beside me, knocks back his soju, then leans into the cushions, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, the other settling lightly around my shoulders. The warmth of him is instant, magnetic. Without thinking, inhibitions lowered from the wine, I lean in, my head finding the hollow of his collarbone, his chest solid beneath me.
“For me?” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “These days, it's only the natural kind. Adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin. What’s the other one, oxytocin?” He says it like a secret, every syllable unveiled.
I tilt my head, smiling up at him. “I hear you can get those on repeat prescriptions.”
He looks down at me, the corner of his mouth curving. “Or…” his voice softens to a whisper “…there’s a doseright here.”
The distance between us evaporates when his lips find mine, slow, gentle, tasting of soju and something warmer. The kiss deepens but never rushes, careful in its hunger, mindful in its rhythm. My fingers trace the line of his collar, then slide into his hair, down the nape of his neck. His hand moves against my back, firm and certain, guiding me closer.
The world blurs into nothing but breath and heat. His heartbeat jumps beneath my fingertips, steady and wild at once, and when he can't hold back a low groan, the sound of it almost drowns out the rain beginning against the roof.
When he finally pulls back, just enough for air, his voice is rough against my mouth. “Do you think that was twenty seconds? For the oxytocin?”
I shake my head, breathless. “You’re assuming I can think right now. Guess we should keep going just to be sure.”
He exhales a small laugh that vibrates through his chest and into mine. One hand stays tangled in my hair, the other resting low at my back, keeping me anchored. Outside, the rain thickens. Inside the cabin, it’s just the two of us, his heat, the taste of him, until the rest of the world disappears.
Chapter 41
Dial It In
Rafe
Ilose track of time.
We just stay there, kissing, pressing, touching, until our world consists of nothing but pulse and skin and the sound of her heartbeat against mine. There’s no edge to it, just the kind of wanting that feels endless because we don’t let it tip over.
When we finally stop, it’s like breaking the surface after hours underwater. My chest aches, my hands are still on her skin, and every inhale feels like stardust. I’m light-headed, drunk on nothing but her.
She’s lying against me now, back pressed to my chest, my arm wrapped around her. Our hands keep finding each other, fingers sliding together and apart again, brushing, tracing, testing. It’s stupid how electric it feels every time, like we’re weaving something we don’t want to name, because naming it might break it. For a long while, we just breathe. The rain on the roof keeps time for us.
“This feels... surreal,” she whispers.
“It does.” I keep my voice low, my thumb brushing over her wrist. “We're acting like it's our first kiss, teenagers staying up all nightmaking out.” That gets a laugh.
“If wewereteenagers,” she murmurs, “this would be the part where weswear, we’re not tired.”
I smile into her hair. “Do you need a nap? Because I'm wide awake.”
She tilts her head back just enough to look at me, eyelids heavy, mouth curved. “You’re such a liar,” she says, teasing.
I press my lips to her temple. “Maybe I just don’t want to stop.”
Her hand finds mine again, her thumb tracing lines against my palm. I could stay like this forever. Her body against me, the rain, the small sound of her breathing. Every part of me feels unspooled in the best way. Like the noise in my head has finally gone still. The world outside keeps moving, but here,it’s just us. The almost. The promise of what comes next, waiting patiently beneath the sound of the rain.
The rain softens to a mist. Her breathing has evened out, but I can feel she’s awake, her fingers still tracing the faint rhythm on my arm, like a metronome she doesn’t know she’s keeping. I almost let it fade there, let the night have us. But the words start pressing at the edges of my mouth, restless, asking to be known.
“I should probably admit,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I’m notgoodat this.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t tense. Just waits. That’s what gets me, the way she waits, thinks, like silence is her native language.
“Not good at what?Sleeping? I know.” She makes a joke of it, the way she always does, diffusing my nerves before I even know I have them. I huff a laugh.
