3. Jordan
JORDAN
The receptionist at the private clinic doesn't blink when we walk in. She nods at me, types something, and within three minutes we're in an exam room waiting for Dr. Sarah Chen. No forms to fill out. No insurance cards. No waiting room.
Money doesn't buy happiness but it buys speed, and right now speed is what Jessica needs.
She sits on the edge of the exam table, hands gripping the vinyl cushion. Her shirt is dry now—I gave her my hoodie in the car and she put it on without arguing. The sleeves hang past her fingertips.
Dr. Chen walks in. Early forties, professional, the kind of calm that comes from delivering bad news and good news in equal measure. She shakes Jessica's hand first, then mine, and gestures for Jessica to stay seated.
"Tell me what's happening."
Jessica's jaw works. The words don't come easy.
"I woke up and my chest hurt. And I was... leaking. Milk. I think. I don't know what else it would be."
Dr. Chen nods. No reaction. Just listening.
"When did this start?"
"Tonight. A few hours ago."
"Any pregnancy possibility?"
"No."
"Sexual activity in the last few months?"
Jessica's face goes red. "No."
"History of hormonal issues? Thyroid problems? Pituitary concerns?"
"I don't know. I've never had insurance good enough to check."
Dr. Chen's expression doesn't shift but something flickers in her eyes. She glances at me, then back to Jessica.
"I'm going to examine you. Is that all right?"
Jessica nods.
The exam takes ten minutes. Dr. Chen presses gently along Jessica's ribs, asks questions about pain levels, checks her lymph nodes. Jessica answers in short sentences, her voice tight. She hates this. Being touched, being looked at, being the center of clinical attention she can't afford.
I stand against the wall and watch.
When Dr. Chen finishes, she sits on the rolling stool and folds her hands.
"The condition is called galactorrhea. It's spontaneous lactation unrelated to pregnancy. Stress is the most common trigger, and based on what you've described, that fits."
Jessica exhales. Relief floods her face—brief, unguarded.
"So I'm not... There's nothing wrong with me?"
"You're not pregnant. And there's nothing wrong with you beyond the immediate symptoms, which we can manage."
I step forward. "What causes it?"
Dr. Chen looks at me. "Elevated prolactin levels, usually stress-induced. Sometimes hormonal imbalances or medication side effects. In Jessica's case, it sounds like prolonged stress combined with inadequate nutrition and sleep."
"Treatment?"
"Medication to regulate prolactin. I'll write a prescription. She should see improvement within a few days."
"And until then?"
"The discomfort will continue until her body adjusts. I recommend a breast pump for management between doses. Manual expression works but it's less efficient."
Jessica's hands tighten on the edge of the table.
I keep my eyes on Dr. Chen. "How often will the symptoms recur?"
"It varies. With medication, most patients see significant reduction. But if the stress continues, symptoms can persist."
"Risks?"
"Minimal, as long as she takes the medication consistently. Infection is possible if milk isn't expressed regularly, but that's preventable."
"What about long-term?"
"Once the stressor is removed and her hormones stabilize, the condition typically resolves. Some patients require ongoing medication. We'll monitor."
I nod. File the information. Next steps, risks, timeline. The same way I'd process a game plan or a recovery protocol.
Dr. Chen writes the prescription, hands it to Jessica, and stands.
"You'll be fine. Take the medication as directed, manage the symptoms, and follow up in two weeks."
Jessica takes the paper. Her voice is too controlled. "Thank you."
Dr. Chen leaves. The door clicks shut.
Jessica doesn't move. She stares at the prescription like it's a bill she can't pay.
"Let's go."
She slides off the table. Follows me out.
The parking lot is empty except for my car. The night air is cold—sharp against my face, the kind of wind that comes off the lake and cuts through fabric. Jessica stops halfway to the car and turns to me. The sodium lights overhead cast her face in amber, highlight the exhaustion in her posture.
"I don't have money for the pump."
She says it flat. Practical. No apology in it. No shame. Just the fact stated aloud because facts don't change whether you say them or not.
I look at her. The prescription is folded in her hand, already crumpled at the edges. Her shoulders are tight under my hoodie.
"We're not buying."
She blinks. "Yeah... I'll buy one when I land a job."
"No."
Her forehead creases. Confusion first, then wariness. "What do you mean, no?"
"Because you don't need a pump. You just need me."
She stares at me, processing. Understanding washes over her face—not all at once, but in stages. The offer. The logistics. The fact that I'm not talking about a one-time emergency. The realization that I'm offering this as a permanent solution until the medication kicks in and her body stabilizes.
I'm offering myself. Every time the pain starts. Every time the fullness builds. My hands. My mouth. Regularly. As often as she needs.
Her mouth opens. Closes. The breath that escapes is visible in the cold air, a small white cloud between us.
"You can't milk me every few hours."
The challenge is there in her voice—half disbelief, half dare. Like she's testing whether I understand what I'm actually offering. The inconvenience. The time. The intimacy of it, repeated, routine, no longer something that just happened once in the dark of her apartment.
I don't blink. "Throughout my career, I've been told I couldn't do a lot of things. Try me, baby girl."
Her breath catches. Audible this time, a small hitch that she tries to cover by looking away. She searches my face for the joke, the line, the smooth offer she can deflect. She won't find it. I mean it. This is logistics. She needs something, I can provide it. The rest is scheduling.
And underneath the logistics—her body under my hands, the taste of her, the sound she made when she came—I shove it back into the box where it's been living since we left her apartment. Not now.
She swallows. Nods once.
We get in the car.
The elevator opens directly into my space. No hallway, no neighbors, no shared lobby. The doors slide apart and the penthouse spreads out in front of us—floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, the city glowing below, Lake Michigan a dark void beyond the glass.
Jessica steps out and stops.
She takes it in. The windows first, then the skyline, then the space itself.
Her eyes track left—the living room, the massive sectional, the TV mounted on the wall.
Right—the kitchen, open and clean, the marble counters catching the city lights.
She turns slowly, a full rotation, and when she faces me again her expression is complicated. Not awe. Something sharper.
"This is the whole floor."
"Yeah."
She doesn't say anything else. Just nods once, like she's filing the information.
I drop my keys on the counter. "I'll show you around."
The tour is quick. Kitchen—stocked, functional, more protein containers than actual food. Living room—the couch, the gaming console I actually use, the terrace beyond the glass doors. She walks to the doors and looks out. The city spreads below, lights everywhere, the fire pit dark on the terrace.
"You can go out there anytime."
She glances back. "Okay."
The gym is next. She peers in, sees the weights and the rowing machine and the heavy bag hanging in the corner. She doesn't ask questions.
The pool stops her. She stands in the doorway, staring at the blue-lit water, the glass walls, the humid warmth rolling out into the hallway.
"You have an indoor pool."
"For recovery."
"Right."
Her voice is neutral but her face isn't. She's adding it up—the penthouse, the pool, the terrace, the private doctor who saw us within minutes. The gap between this world and the apartment she left is so wide she can't see across it.
I lead her down the hallway. "Your room."
She steps inside. The bed is king-sized, the sheets are new, the window faces the lake. Her duffel bag sits on the floor beside the closet, small and worn against the clean lines of the room.
She walks to the window. Touches the glass. Doesn't say anything.
"Bathroom's through there. Towels in the cabinet. You need anything, tell me."
She turns. "Thank you."
The words are quiet. Sincere. They land heavier than they should.
"Get some sleep."
She nods. I leave. Close the door behind me.
Hours later, I'm still awake.
The adrenaline from the last six hours won't settle.
My body's wired, my brain won't stop running the same loop—her apartment, the pain on her face, the doctor, the drive, the way she looked when she stepped into the penthouse.
The locked box in my head rattles every time I think about the taste of her, the sound she made, the way her body arched under my mouth.
I need a shower.
I head to my bathroom, turn the handle. Nothing. Right—the shower's been broken for a week. I keep meaning to call someone, haven't gotten around to it because it's never mattered. I have the hallway bathroom.
I listen. Her room is quiet.
The lights under her door are off. She's asleep.
I grab a towel and head to the hallway bathroom—the one between our rooms.
The water's hot. I step under the spray, let it run over my shoulders, my neck, the tension in my back.
Steam fills the room. I close my eyes. The last six hours play on a loop behind my eyelids—her soaked shirt, her shaking hands, the way she said I'm a virgin like it was a fact she was bracing for me to use against her.
The way her body responded when I put my mouth on her.
I shove the thought down. Not now.
The door opens.
She's standing there.
T-shirt, shorts, bare legs. Her strawberry blonde hair is loose around her face—no ponytail, no control—and her eyes are wide, pupils blown in the dim bathroom light. She wasn't asleep.