Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Colton
Her words don’t just land. They pierce my chest.
“At least other doctors have the balls to take what they want.”
I don’t move at first. I stand there in the locker room after the door swings shut behind her, the metal echo ringing too loud in my ears. My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles whitening as heat floods my chest.
Sharp anger comes first. She has no idea what she’s talking about.
I don’t take what I want because wanting has consequences. Because wanting leads to attachment. To loss. To standing in places like this hospital, watching people you love disappear one monitor beep at a time.
But the anger doesn’t hold.
It fractures.
Because underneath it is the sickening realization that she’s not wrong.
I do want her.
I wanted her when Owens smiled at her like she was worth noticing.
Wanted her when she laughed—really laughed—like she hadn’t done it in weeks.
Wanted her when I stood there, unnecessary and uninvited, refusing to leave the room because the thought of someone else stepping into my place felt unbearable.
And instead of claiming what I wanted, I punished her for it. I used cruel words to get under her skin to make her feel as bad as I did.
My jaw tenses as shame mixes with frustration, the pressure in my chest climbing until it feels like it might crack my ribs open. I tell myself to let it go. To walk away. To do what I always do—retreat, lock it down, regain control.
Then I see her through the glass at the end of the hall.
Head down. Bag slung over her shoulder. Moving fast, like if she doesn’t leave now, she’ll say what she can’t take back.
She turns toward the stairwell, and the last of my control snaps. I don’t think. I don’t weigh consequences. I don’t plan.
I move. Then I follow her.
The stairwell smells faintly of concrete and disinfectant, the echo of my footsteps too loud in the quiet. She’s already halfway down the landing when she hears me.
“Melissa,” I call.
She stops, but she doesn’t turn around. “Don’t,” she says softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say something you’ll regret.”
I step closer, not touching her, but giving her the choice to move away.
“I already regret enough,” I say.
She turns then, eyes bright but steady. Guarded. Brave in a way that undoes me.
“You don’t get to want me only when someone else notices,” she says. “And you don’t get to punish me for it.”
“I wasn’t punishing you.”
Her laugh is quiet. Hurt. “You disappeared.”
I exhale. “Because I don’t know how to do this.”
“Then stop pretending you don’t want it.”
The words hit square in my chest.
“I can’t promise you anything,” I say. The truth comes out rough, unpolished. “I don’t do relationships. I don’t know how to be … careful.”
She studies me for a long moment.
“Good,” she says.
I blink. “Good?”
“I don’t want promises,” she replies. “I don’t want future talk or guarantees. I’ve had those. I know how fragile they are.”
Her voice softens. “I just want you to want me. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s convenient, but honestly.”
The wall inside me gives way.
I step closer. Close enough that her breath brushes my jaw. Close enough that walking away would hurt worse than staying.
“This isn’t just release,” I say quietly. “And that’s what scares me.”
Her hand comes to rest against my chest. Not pushing. Not pulling.
“I know,” she whispers.
I don’t give myself time to think. If I do, I’ll stop. I always stop.
My hands come up slowly, deliberately, cupping her face like it’s something fragile instead of the thing undoing me. My thumbs skim her jaw, feeling the warmth there, the slight tremble that tells me she’s as aware of this moment as I am.
I’ve wanted her mouth for weeks. I didn’t expect the wanting to feel like this.
“Look at me,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I intended.
She does, and whatever wall I’ve been holding up finally fractures.
I lean in, resting my forehead against hers first, breathing her in, steadying myself on the reality of her being right here.
I lean in slowly and gently press our lips together.
Her lips part on a quiet sigh, and the sound moves straight through me, settling low and heavy in my chest. It loosens something inside me I didn’t realize had been locked down for years.
I deepen the kiss, still unhurried, still controlled. My thumbs trace her cheekbones as I tilt my head, fitting my mouth to hers more fully. Her hands come up to my chest, fingers curling into my jacket, like she needs the anchor as badly as I do.
I feel it when her mouth opens for me.
The invitation hits hard.
A low sound leaves me before I can stop it, pressed straight into her mouth as my tongue slides against hers. Not taking, but learning.
She answers immediately, a soft moan slipping from her throat and into my mouth, and it wrecks me.
Nothing has ever done this to me.
My body reacts instantly. Heat engulfs me, but it’s the way the kiss grounds me that knocks the breath from my lungs. The way it pulls me fully into the moment instead of letting me escape it.
My hands slide from her face, down her neck, over her shoulders, tracing the curve of her body, like I need to know every inch of her is real. When I pull her closer, she comes without hesitation, melting into me, fitting against my body in a way that feels dangerous in its rightness.
I kiss her deeper, slower, pouring everything I haven’t said into the way my mouth moves against hers.
Her fingers slip into my hair, tugging enough to draw another rough sound from my chest. I answer by tightening my hold, one hand firm at her waist, anchoring her against me, like letting go isn’t an option anymore.
The kiss turns heavier, not frantic, but loaded. Each shared breath, each quiet sound exchanged, pulls me further from the man I was before her.
When I pull back, it’s only an inch. Enough to breathe. Our foreheads rest together, breaths uneven, bodies still drawn tight.
My eyes close.
“This doesn’t happen to me,” I admit, my voice low, stripped bare.
Her hands stay on me. Steady. Unafraid.
“I know,” she whispers.
That’s what breaks me.
I kiss her again. Slower this time as I seal the truth I can no longer deny. When I finally let her go, my hands linger.
“This doesn’t change the risks,” I murmur.
“I’m not asking it to,” she replies.
“We should go,” I say.
She nods calmly. She’s still present. Still here with me.
And for the first time in a long time, walking away doesn’t feel like escape because I know I’m making a choice to come back.