Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Colton
One morning, I’m turning the corner of the street to the main entrance of the hospital when I spot her familiar blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.
My legs work double time to reach the entrance the same time she does.
“Melissa,” I breathe heavily.
She turns, and the simple act of her face softening when she sees me makes my chest tighten. The morning air is sharp, the city loud, but everything narrows to her standing there in scrubs and a coat she hasn’t bothered to button.
I step aside automatically, holding the door open. “After you.”
She passes close enough that my instinct takes over before thought can catch up. My hand settles at her lower back—not guiding, not pushing.
I tell myself it’s professional. Habit. A courtesy. I also tell myself a lot of things that aren’t true.
Her body stills for half a second, just enough that I feel it. The awareness. The quiet intake of breath. My hand doesn’t move away immediately. I don’t let it.
Desire flares low in my stomach in a way it hasn’t in a long time. Not sharp. Not urgent. Almost possessive.
I drop my hand like it burned me and walk ahead before I do something reckless, but the damage is already done. My pulse is too loud. My thoughts too focused on the way her back curved under my palm. How much I wanted to sink my hand lower to her bottom.
The elevator doors slide open, and we step inside together. Then the rest of the floor piles in. The space between us disappears in seconds. Bodies press close. Someone backs up against her pushing her into me.
My hands come up automatically. One at her hip. The other braced against the wall behind me so I don’t fall.
Her breath stutters. So does mine.
Her hip fits against my palm like it’s always belonged there, and I realize I’m gripping her harder than necessary. Not steadying.
Holding.
I can feel every inch of her through layers of fabric. I sense how aware she is of me. How aware she is of this.
No one else exists.
The elevator hums. Floors tick by. Someone laughs. Someone complains about the weather.
I barely hear any of it.
I hear her breathing. I hear my own restraint fraying.
I should move. I should create space. I should do a hundred things I don’t do.
Instead, my thumb shifts against her hip.
The elevator doors open, and I step back like I’ve been shoved, breaking contact too fast, too abruptly. She exhales like she’s been holding her breath the entire ride. I have been too.
The rest of the morning is a blur of charts and exams and conversations I hardly remember. I move from room to room on autopilot, my mind replaying the feel of her body against mine on a loop I can’t shut off.
I tell myself it was nothing, but I’ve apparently become a pathological liar today.
By the time I step into Frank’s room, I’m wound tight enough that even his grin sets me on edge.
“Well,” he says, eyeing me, “you look like hell.”
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter.
“Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he adds. “Simply … noticeable.”
I’m about to respond when the door opens again and Melissa walks in. Just like that, the room shifts.
Frank notices immediately. His gaze flicks from her to me and back again, sharp and amused.
“Well, damn,” he says. “Did I miss something, or did the temperature go up ten degrees?”
Melissa freezes. I close my eyes for half a second.
“Frank—” I start.
“Oh no,” he cuts in. “Don’t you dare Frank me. I’ve been stuck in this bed for weeks. Entertainment is limited.”
His eyes gleam. “You two look like you just survived a moment together.”
We both speak at once.
“Nothing.”
“Work.”
Frank snorts. “Sure it was.”
He settles back against his pillows, satisfied. “You know, I’ve always appreciated tension. Keeps things interesting. But don’t let it distract you from your jobs.”
His gaze lingers on me. Knowing. Gentle. Dangerous.
“And don’t kid yourselves,” he adds lightly. “That kind of energy doesn’t come from nowhere.”
Silence stretches.
Melissa clears her throat and moves toward his IV, suddenly very focused.
I can’t stop watching her.
And I can’t stop wondering how much longer I can pretend this isn’t happening.
Hours later, I’m alone in my office, reviewing charts.
I decided to stay late, a distraction. Going home right now feels impossible with the way my body is worked up.
But I leave my door cracked open just in case a nurse needs me.
They know I’m off duty, technically, but I still want them to ask any questions they might have.
I’m analyzing Frank’s numbers when I notice a shadow at my door. I look up and see Melissa’s face pop in.
“You’re still here?” she states.
“So are you.”
She hesitates. “I was finishing Frank’s intake notes.”
I nod. “Good.” That comes out rougher than I intended.
She shifts her weight, fingers curling around the chart she’s holding. The room feels smaller. Or maybe I’m more aware of how close she is to my desk.
Too close.
Not close enough.
“Melissa,” I say quietly.
She looks up, immediately attentive.
“Whatever this is,” I continue, choosing each word carefully, “it doesn’t belong here.”
Her expression doesn’t harden. It does the opposite.
“I know,” she says.
And that somehow makes it worse. Was I hoping for her to argue against me?
She smiles and turns around, leaving moments later as the professional that she is.
I sit there long after the door clicks shut, painfully aware that for the first time in my life, restraint feels like loss.
The next morning, I walk into Frank’s room, which smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee—real coffee, not the burned excuse they serve upstairs. He’s propped up against his pillows, watching us the way someone watches a slow-motion car wreck.
Melissa is checking his vitals. I’m pretending to review his chart. Neither of us is fooling him.
Frank snorts. “Good grief.”
Melissa freezes. I look up.
“What?” I ask.
He gestures lazily between us. “You two.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “Frank …”
“You’re exhausting,” he says. “I mean it. I can feel whatever this is, and I’m the one hooked up to machines.”
Melissa exhales softly, clearly trying not to smile.
“I’m serious,” he continues. “Every time you’re in the same room, the air gets … thicker. Like the damn humidity spiked.”
“That’s inappropriate,” I say automatically.
Frank lifts a brow. “So is pretending I’m blind.”
Silence stretches.
Melissa finishes adjusting the IV and steps back.
“I’ll grab more saline,” she says quietly.
She moves toward the door. I follow her without thinking.
The supply closet door clicks shut behind us. The space is narrow. Gloves are stacked on shelves, and linens crowd in from every side. The air is cooler here, but my skin feels hot.
She turns to face me. “Colton—”
I step closer. Not touching her. Not yet at least.
“Tell me you don’t feel it,” I say.
Her breath stutters.
“That’s not fair,” she replies softly.
I brace my hand against the shelf beside her head, caging her in without actually touching her. The restraint is deliberate. Necessary.
“Do you know how hard it is,” I continue, voice low, controlled by sheer force of will, “to walk into a room and have my body react before my brain can catch up?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. I see it. That’s the problem. I know the attraction is just as strong on her side.
“This doesn’t happen to me,” I say sharply. “I don’t … lose control like this.”
She swallows. “Then don’t.”
I lean in closer, close enough that her breath brushes my jaw. Close enough that the space between us is no longer theoretical. My forehead drops to the shelf beside her. One inch closer, and I’d kiss her.
But I don’t. I pull back instead, anger flashing—not at her, but at myself.
“This is a mistake,” I say. “And I don’t make mistakes.”
Her voice is steady when she answers, “Neither do I.”
“I need you to understand something,” I say, stepping back fully now. “I don’t do relationships. I don’t … soften for other people. I don’t let things go too far.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
“Okay,” she says simply.
That’s it. No argument. No drama. And somehow, that strikes heavier than if she’d begged me to stay.
“I should get back to Frank,” she adds.
She reaches for the door.
Before she leaves, I say her name. “Melissa.”
She pauses, but doesn’t turn around.
“I usually only want people for a quick release,” I admit quietly. “This isn’t that.”
She looks at me then. Her gaze is warm. Sad. Understanding.
“That’s why it scares you,” she says.
Then she opens the door and walks out. I stay in the supply closet long after she’s gone. My hands curl into fists at my sides because for the first time in my life, looking at someone doesn’t make me want to forget myself.
It makes me want to be known. And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.