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He stills for half a second, then moves fast. I turn, push him onto his back, and swing my leg over his hips. The sight of him underneath me—sleep-messy hair, dark stubble, those intense eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in his world—does dangerous things to my pulse.

I reach back and grab his cock, savoring the way his abs tense and his hands flex hard on my thighs.

Then I rise up, line him up, and sink down.

We both groan as he fills me, thick and deep. I pause, breathing through the stretch, feeling him throb inside me.

"Jesus, Anna."

"Still just ‘Jesus’?" I tease, rolling my hips.

"Give me a minute and I’ll write you a full fucking thesis."

I don’t give him a minute.

I start moving, slow and deep at first, hands braced on his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammering under my palms. He lets me take control completely—lying back, watching me with that hungry, focused gaze that makes me feel worshipped. His hands roam: sliding up my thighs, under the stolen shirt, cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples until I’m gasping.

"You’re staring," I breathe.

"I’m studying." His voice is wrecked. He sits up effortlessly, pulls the shirt over my head, and latches his mouth onto my breast, sucking hard. I cry out, threading my fingers through his hair and grinding down on him faster.

The headboard starts knocking against the wall. The sheets are twisted around us. His phone is buzzing somewhere on the floor—Tokyo be damned. Danny gets a hand between us, thumb circling my clit in tight, perfect strokes while I ride him.

"Come on, baby," he growls against my throat. "Let me feel you."

I shatter hard, clenching around him, moaning his name as pleasure crashes through me. He flips us in one smooth motion, pinning me beneath him, and drives deep through the last waves of my orgasm until he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a low, broken groan against my neck.

We stay tangled together, breathing hard, skin slick.

"Your call," I finally manage, dazed.

"Rescheduled."

"When?"

"Just now. Telepathically." He lifts his head, hair wild from my hands, and grins. "Actually, I rescheduled it last night after you fell asleep mid-sentence at nine-thirty like a little old lady."

"I work nights!"

"You were ranting about Matteo’s garnish opinions and then… gone. I’ve started keeping a list of your unfinished sentences."

"Delete the list," I laugh, pulling him down for a slow kiss.

"No. It's mine." He kisses me and gets up, and I lie in the ruined sheets watching him walk to the bathroom and think, not for the first time, that I have no idea how this became my life.

St. Vincent's, room 414. My mother is sitting up doing the crossword, looking better than she has in two years. Dr. Patel has upgraded from "cautiously encouraging" to "genuinely pleased," which Mom says is how she'd describe a second date with a man who brings flowers.

She looks up. Then she looks past me at Danny, who is standing in the doorway holding seventeen boxes of brand-name Jell-O in a tower against his chest, wearing a navy sweater I made him wear, and who is — I will treasure this forever — visibly nervous.

"You must be the boss," Mom says, wiggling her eyebrows at me. "What's in the boxes?"

"Jell-O. Anna said you needed an upgrade. The hospital kind tested fourteen percent lower in gelatin content and the fruit is a purée injection, not pieces." He stacks the boxes on her side table, aligned. "These have pieces. I confirmed with the manufacturer."

"You confirmed with the manufacturer." She repeats, trying not to laugh.

"Their customer line was unhelpful, so I called the regional distribution director."

"Of Jell-O?"