Chapter 12 Erik
The hospital lobby is bright and sterile and smells like antiseptic. I’ve been nursing the same coffee for forty minutes, watching people shuffle past and trying not to think about what happened in the woods.
I kissed him.
Not like yesterday, when everything was heat and anger and I could blame it on the unexpected. This morning I made a choice. I saw the want in his eyes, knew exactly what I was doing, and kissed him anyway.
I can still feel his hands fisting in my shirt. Still taste him on my lips.
This is what the Bureau wanted. It’s why they’re insisting on us being in close proximity. It’s working. We’ve been living together a day and a half and we had sex within the first five minutes and that’s not even counting that kiss in the woods this morning which somehow felt even more intimate.
The coffee has gone cold. I drink it anyway, grimacing at the bitterness, and check the time. Nolan’s been upstairs for over an hour. Visiting hours are typically two hours, so he should be down soon. We haven’t had a ping from the Bureau yet, but it could come in at any minute.
I think about Ellie, the sister he’s doing all of this for. I’ve seen her file. Sara pulled the records when we first started the matching process. Her prognosis was grim without intervention. The experimental treatment she’s undergoing is her best shot at a normal life.
Nolan hates me. I don’t know what to do with that.
The elevator chimes and Nolan steps out and I know immediately that something is wrong.
His face is pale, jaw tight, eyes red-rimmed in a way that suggests he’s been crying or fighting not to. He walks toward me with stiff, mechanical steps, like he’s holding himself together through sheer force of will.
“Ready to go?” I ask carefully.
“Yeah.”
One word. Flat. Empty.
I don’t push. We walk to the car in silence, slide into the backseat with the usual careful distance between us. The driver pulls away from the hospital and Nolan turns to stare out the window, presenting me with the back of his head.
This silence is different from last night. Last night was careful and, controlled, both of us navigating around the elephant in the room, pretending we weren’t thinking about each other. This is something else. Something heavier.
He’s upset.
Not angry, not defensive. Just... hurt. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his hand curls into a fist on his thigh. Something happened upstairs with Ellie.
“Did everything go okay?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. “With your sister?”
A long pause. Then: “She knows.”
“Knows what?”
“About the marriage.” He doesn’t turn from the window. “Someone at the hospital was gossiping. She found out before I could tell her.”
I close my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say. And I mean it. Whatever else Nolan might be—infuriating, impossible, achingly desirable—it’s clear that he loves his sister. Having her find out this way, from strangers, must have been devastating.
Nolan glances at me, surprise flickering across his features. Like he wasn’t expecting sincerity.
“Thanks,” he says after a moment, then he turns back to the window.
We don’t speak for the rest of the drive.
The city rises up around us again, buildings pressing in on all sides, and I watch Nolan’s reflection in the glass. His eyes are distant, unfocused. Whatever conversation happened in that hospital room, he’s still having it in his head.
I want to ask. I want to know what Ellie said, how she reacted, whether she’s angry or hurt or both, but it’s not my place. We’re not really married, not really partners. I’m just the alpha he’s tolerating for her sake.
The thought shouldn’t sting as much as it does.
The car drops us at the apartment and Nolan is out the door before I’ve even unbuckled my seatbelt. He takes the stairs two at a time—we’re only on the third floor—and by the time I reach the landing, he’s already unlocking the door.
“I’m going to lie down,” he says without looking at me. The bedroom door closes behind him. Not a slam—just a firm, deliberate click.
I stand in the living room of my own apartment, hands in my pockets, feeling like an intruder.
The afternoon light slants through the windows, catching dust motes in the air. The couch still has my pillow and blanket from last night, folded neatly. Nolan’s jacket hangs by the door. His coffee mug from this morning sits in the sink, unwashed.
There are traces of him everywhere. His scent lingers in the air, stronger than yesterday. It feels warmer and sweeter for some reason, and even more delicious than it usually is.
I should work. I should pull out my laptop and catch up on my emails, prepare for the meetings I’ll have to attend remotely over the next two weeks. Instead I find myself drifting to the window, staring out at the street below, thinking about the taste of his mouth.
This is dangerous. I know it’s dangerous. He’s not mine. Letting myself want him is a recipe for disaster.
But I do want him. God, I want him so badly it’s becoming difficult to think about anything else.
My phone buzzes. Sara’s number.
I glance toward the bedroom door—still closed, no sound from inside—and answer.
“Sara.”
“Erik. Is this a good time?”
“As good as any.” I keep my voice low, moving toward the kitchen to put distance between myself and the bedroom. “What did you find?”
“The discrepancies you asked about the West research timeline.”
My hand tightens on the phone. “And?”
I want to hear that I was wrong. If Nolan isn’t lying, then that changes everything. It means I can want him without any reservation and it means that I have the power to make everything right with us.
“I don’t have much new yet,” Sara says and my heart sinks.
“I’ve been looking into the gaps between what Alistair provided and what our due diligence team uncovered during the acquisition.
” A pause, papers rustling. “But they’re explainable.
Small companies often have messy records.
It doesn’t necessarily indicate anything improper. ”
“But it might.”
“It might.” Sara’s voice is careful, measured.
She’s been with me for six years, knows when I’m fishing for something specific.
“Alistair is coming in next week. He’s bringing additional documentation.
He says he has original lab notes, early trial data, the works. He says it’ll clear everything up.”
“Convenient timing.”
“Erik.” A warning note. “Alistair Wallace has been a good partner. His work formed the foundation of the program. If there were issues with the original research, we would have found them by now.”
She’s right. We did extensive due diligence before the acquisition. Background checks, patent searches, independent verification of the research. Everything came back clean.
But Nolan seems so certain. So angry. It doesn’t feel like the vague bitterness of someone who lost out on a business deal. The anger with which he looks at me feels like the specific, burning fury of someone who’s been personally wronged.
“Just make sure we have time to review the documents before Alistair arrives,” I tell Sara. “I want to see everything.”
“Of course. Erik—” She hesitates. “Is everything all right? You sound... distracted.”
“Fine,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”
I end the call and stand there for a moment, phone in hand, staring at nothing.
What if Nolan’s right?
The thought creeps in, unwelcome. What if Alistair did steal his research?
I push the thought away. I can’t afford to think like that. Not now. Not until I have more information. I need the actual data. I can’t make any decisions until that happens.
The apartment is too quiet. I can hear the clock ticking in the kitchen, the distant hum of traffic, my own breathing. There is no sound from the bedroom. Nolan could be sleeping or crying or staring at the ceiling. I have no way of knowing.
I make myself useful instead. I answer emails and review contracts. I do the work I’d normally do from my office, compressed into a laptop screen at my old kitchen table. It’s not ideal, but it’s something to focus on. Something to keep me from thinking about the man behind the closed door.
Hours pass. The light shifts from afternoon gold to evening grey. My stomach reminds me that we haven’t eaten since the trail mix I grabbed at the nature reserve parking lot.
It’s my turn to cook.
The thought is almost laughable. My cooking repertoire consists entirely of reservations and delivery apps.
I could attempt something—there’s pasta in the pantry, I think, and vegetables in the fridge—but the memory of Nolan’s effortless competence last night makes me hesitate.
Whatever I produce will be pathetic in comparison.
I order Thai food instead: pad thai, green curry, spring rolls. Enough for two, with leftovers.
The delivery arrives as the last of the daylight fades. I set out plates, transfer food from containers, try to make it look like I put in some effort. It’s a transparent fiction, but at least I’m not burning anything.
I knock on the bedroom door.
“Nolan? Dinner.”
Silence. Then footsteps, soft on the carpet. The door swings open.
The scent hits me first.
It’s Nolan, but more. Richer, deeper, with an undertone of something that makes my whole body go tight with sudden, overwhelming want. It’s like his usual scent has been distilled and concentrated, every note amplified until it’s almost overwhelming.
My vision tunnels. My hands curl into fists at my sides. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to move, to take, to—
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Control. I have control.
Nolan stands in the doorway, looking wrecked. His hair is messy, shirt rumpled, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. He’s flushed—a delicate pink spreading across his cheekbones, down his neck, disappearing under his collar.
“Something smells good,” he says, and his voice is rough. Throatier than usual.