Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Liam
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I’m standing outside Dr. Torrino’s office at eight in the morning, wearing the new clothes Nicky insisted on buying me. Smart trousers, a button-down shirt, all professional and proper. I look the part but it’s hard trying to convince myself that I’m not about to completely fuck this up.
It’s my first day. My first job since prison.
The first time in years that someone is trusting me with actual responsibility.
What if I’ve forgotten everything? What if the skills I learned in Brixton don’t translate to this world?
What if Dr. Torrino realizes he’s made a terrible mistake and sends me home before lunch?
I take a deep breath and walk through the door.
To my surprise, the office is already bustling. Three people in the waiting room, all wearing that particular carefully neutral expression that suggests they’re here for reasons they can’t discuss in polite company.
I find Dr. Torrino at his desk, reviewing files, and he looks up with a genuine smile when I enter.
“Liam! Perfect timing. Ready for your first day?”
“I think so,” I say, hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel.
“Good. The first rule of working with our clientele is that discretion is paramount. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you remember nothing outside these walls. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“The second rule is, treat everyone with respect, regardless of what they do for a living or why they’re here. Pain is pain, injury is injury. We don’t judge.”
“Got it.”
“Excellent. Let’s get started.”
The first patient is a middle-aged man with a knife wound on his thigh that he claims came from “an accident in the kitchen.” Dr. Torrino doesn’t question the obvious lie, just nods and gestures for me to assist with the cleaning and suturing.
My hands are still shaking as I put on the disposable gloves, but the moment I start working on irrigating the wound, assessing the damage, preparing the suture kit… everything else falls away. This is familiar territory. This is something I know how to do.
“Good technique,” Dr. Torrino murmurs as I help him close the wound. “Steady hands, proper tension.”
The compliment warms me from the inside out.
The second patient is younger, early twenties, with bruised ribs and a split lip that suggests a fight went badly.
He’s nervous, jumpy, clearly in pain but trying not to show it.
I recognize the signs immediately. The careful way he holds himself, the way his eyes track every movement in the room, the defensive posture that comes from expecting more violence.
“It’s okay,” I tell him quietly while Dr. Torrino examines his ribs. “The door is locked. It’s just us. No one’s going to jump you.”
The young man looks at me properly for the first time, and something in his expression shifts. Recognition, maybe, of someone who understands. “You’ve been there,” he says. It’s not a question.
“Yeah. I have.”
He relaxes slightly, enough to let Dr. Torrino finish the examination without flinching at every touch. When we’re done, he thanks me specifically, which makes something warm and satisfied settle in my chest.
By lunchtime, we’ve seen six patients. A gunshot wound that miraculously missed anything vital, a dislocated shoulder from “falling down stairs.” Two overdoses that we stabilize before sending them on their way with stern warnings about drug use, and a woman with an infection from a badly done tattoo.
Dr. Torrino and I work in smooth coordination, our movements becoming increasingly synchronized as the morning progresses.
He explains things as we go. Such as why he chooses certain antibiotics over others, how to assess whether a wound really can’t avoid hospital care or can be handled here, what signs to watch for that might indicate internal damage.
It’s educational and challenging and absolutely exhilarating.
“Lunch break,” Dr. Torrino announces after the woman with the infected tattoo leaves. “There’s a sandwich shop around the corner. Get us both something, my treat for your first day.”
I practically float to the sandwich shop, still buzzing with the satisfaction of a morning well spent. I’m good at this. Actually good at it. Not just competent or getting by, but genuinely skilled in a way that feels meaningful and important.
As I step back into the clinic with the artisan sandwiches in their brown paper bags, I realize that I just went out by myself. I stood in a queue, placed my order. All like a normal person.
This job really is good for me.
The afternoon brings more variety. A man who cut himself on broken glass and needs stitches, someone withdrawing from heroin who needs medical supervision and his methadone dose adjusting.
Each case is different, each person brings their own story and struggles, and I find myself completely absorbed in the work.
There’s no time to worry about my own problems when someone’s sitting in front of me bleeding or scared or in pain.
There’s only the immediate need to help, to heal, to make things even slightly better than they were before.
By five o’clock, I’m exhausted but exhilarated. My feet hurt from standing all day, my back aches from bending over patients, and I’m pretty sure I’ve washed my hands at least fifty times. But I feel more alive, more purposeful, more like myself than I have in years.
Dr. Torrino finishes his notes on the last patient and looks up at me with an assessing gaze.
“Well, Liam. What do you think? Still interested in the work?”
“Absolutely,” I say without hesitation. “Today was... it was incredible.”
He smiles, and there’s genuine warmth in his expression. “You did well. Very well, in fact. You have excellent instincts, good hands, and most importantly, you have compassion. That last one is harder to teach than the technical skills.”
The praise hits me like a physical force, warming me from the inside out until I think I might actually burst with pride. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“I mean it. You’re a natural at this work. I’m very pleased I made the offer.” He stands and starts tidying his desk. “Same time tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here.”
I practically skip out of the office and down to the street where Nicky is waiting in his car. The moment I slide into the passenger seat, everything I’ve been holding in all day comes spilling out.
“It was amazing,” I gush before he can even say hello.
“We had this guy with a knife wound, and Dr. Torrino let me do most of the suturing, and then there was this kid who was so scared but I managed to calm him down, and there were overdoses and infections and this woman who needed antibiotics for…”
“Slow down,” Nicky laughs, pulling out into traffic. “Breathe. Start from the beginning.”
So I do. Without giving any names or descriptions, I tell him about every procedure, every moment when I felt competent and useful and like I was actually making a difference.
I talk about Dr. Torrino’s teaching style, about the equipment, about the strange mix of routine medical care and the underlying danger that comes from treating people who live in the shadows.
Nicky listens to all of it with a smile on his face that grows warmer as I talk.
His eyes are full of love and pride and understanding, and God, he’s absolutely gorgeous.
The afternoon light catches his profile as he drives, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the way his hair falls just slightly into his eyes.
How did I get so lucky? How did I end up with someone who looks at me like this… like I’m something precious and wonderful instead of broken and damaged?
“I’m so proud of you,” he says when I finally run out of words. “You did it, Liam. You found something you’re good at, something meaningful.”
“Dr. Torrino said I did well,” I tell him, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “Said I have excellent instincts and good hands and compassion.”
“He’s right. You’re going to be brilliant at this.”
The conviction in his voice makes my chest tight with emotion. He believes in me. Completely, unquestioningly, believes that I can do this, can build a career, can be someone worth something.
By the time we pull into the parking garage under our building, I’m practically vibrating with happiness and energy and the sheer joy of having something to be proud of.
We ride the elevator up in comfortable silence, but I can’t stop looking at him.
At the gentle smile playing at his lips, at the way he keeps glancing at me like he’s checking to make sure I’m real.
The moment we’re through the apartment door, something inside me snaps.
All the adrenaline from the day, all the pride and satisfaction and the way Nicky has been looking at me, all the love and desire I’ve been holding back, it all crashes together into one overwhelming need.
I push him against the wall, probably harder than necessary, and kiss him with everything I have.
His surprise only lasts a second before he’s kissing me back just as passionately, his hands coming up to grip my waist. This isn’t the gentle, careful kisses we’ve been sharing. This is fierce and demanding and full of all the confidence I’ve been building today.
I feel powerful. Capable. Like someone who can take what he wants instead of just accepting what he’s given.
Nicky makes a sound against my mouth, surprise or pleasure or both, and one of his hands moves up to tangle in my hair. The kiss deepens, becomes something hungry and desperate, and I press closer, wanting to feel every inch of him against me.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, Nicky’s eyes are dark with desire and his lips are kiss-swollen and beautiful.
“What was that for?” he asks, his voice rough.
“For being you. For believing in me. For looking at me like I’m something worth wanting.”
“You are worth wanting,” he says fiercely. “So much. Always.”
I kiss him again, softer this time but no less intense. It feels different than our previous kisses, not born from desperation or fear or the need to prove something, but from genuine desire and joy and the simple fact that I want him and I’m finally confident enough to show it.
“Good first day?” he murmurs against my lips.
“Best first day,” I agree. “And it’s getting even better.”
He laughs, warm and genuine, and the sound fills something hollow in my chest that I didn’t even realize was empty. This is what happiness feels like. This is what it means to have a life worth living. Meaningful work, someone who loves you, the confidence to believe you deserve both.
This is what it means to have Nicky. Nicky. It has always been Nicky.
I kiss him some more. My blood heats. It pounds in my veins. All I can hear is my heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Hungry.
Low in my belly, arousal has ignited. Insistent and all-consuming. I want. I need. I crave.
I pull away from Nicky’s lips. I drop to my knees. My hands fumble with his belt.
Darkness surges briefly as I think about how unfamiliar I am with belts because prisoners are not allowed to wear them. But then I’ve managed it, along with Nicky’s fly, and his cock is free. And right in front of me. And the joy of that is bright enough to chase all of the shadows away.
I’m far too eager and keen to do this slowly. I’m all impatience and a feral lust. So I open my mouth wide and gorge on him.
The salty, manly taste of him floods my senses, and I moan. My hands go to his hips and hold him while I feast.
He cries out, and it is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. He writhes, and I’m so fucking ecstatic that I am giving him so much pleasure.
Dimly, I’m aware of his hands scrambling along the hallway wall for purchase, for some anchor. Then his hands drop and come to rest in my hair. But he doesn’t yank, pull or possess. He touches carefully. Reverently. Strong, hot hands caressing me gently.
My eyes roll back. I hollow out my cheeks and I suck. Nicky groans, low and deep. His cock pulses in my mouth as he dumps his load down my throat. I swallow it all gladly.
When I get to my feet, I’m giddy with euphoria. Not only pleasure from the blow job, but delight that I succeeded in doing it. My demons weren’t able to ruin the moment this time.
I kiss him, and he moans. I wonder if he can taste himself on my lips?
We kiss for a while longer, pressed against the wall just inside our front door, taking our time exploring and enjoying and just being together without any agenda beyond wanting each other.
This is more than enough.
When we finally separate, both flushed and smiling, I rest my forehead against his and just breathe him in.
“Thank you for giving me a reason to want good days. For showing me that life can be something more than just surviving.”
His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones with infinite tenderness. “You gave me that too. We gave it to each other.”
And standing there in our hallway, happy and whole and finally believing in a future that includes both of us, I think maybe that’s the most important thing love can do.
Not fix us or save us or make all our problems disappear.
But give us a reason to keep trying, keep fighting, keep believing that tomorrow might be even better than today.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I actually believe that’s true.