Chapter 17
POV: Marina
I nodded, my legs already parting for him without hesitation.
“So open for me, baby.”
I was. In every sense of the word.
He moved over me, slow and deliberate, guiding my body exactly where he wanted it. When he pressed into me, the sensation stole the air from my lungs—full, deep, overwhelming. I gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders.
He adjusted my knees, lifting them, changing the angle with a calculated precision that made me dizzy. Every thrust was controlled, deliberate, as if he knew exactly how to dismantle me piece by piece.
“That’s it,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Don’t stop.”
My world narrowed to him. His weight, his breath, the intensity in his eyes as he watched me unravel.
This wasn’t just sex.
We both knew it.
That realization sent a chill through me—fear and craving tangled together.
I came undone with his name on my lips, my body trembling under him. He followed, collapsing over me, arms braced on either side of my head, forehead resting against mine.
For a moment, he just stared at me.
I almost thought he would say it.
The word. The one that changes everything.
But he only kissed me again, slower, softer, like a promise he wasn’t ready to name.
“Shower,” he said finally.
I laughed weakly. “You’re insatiable.”
“I meant you,” he corrected, brushing a thumb under my eye. “You’re exhausted. Let me take care of you.”
The bathroom filled with steam as he turned on the water. He guided me in, hands firm but gentle, like he was leading me somewhere sacred.
Warm water cascaded over us. He stepped behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders, grounding me again.
“You’re shaking,” he noted.
“I had a night shift,” I teased.
He snorted softly, then reached for the shampoo. He washed my hair first, fingers massaging my scalp with slow, deliberate strokes. I closed my eyes, leaning into his touch.
No rush. No urgency. Just… care.
He rinsed my hair, then traced soap over my arms, my back, my waist. His hands lingered, not in hunger, but in something steadier. Something dangerous.
“People think you’re fragile,” he murmured, rinsing the soap from my skin.
“And I’m not?”
“You’re breakable,” he corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
I turned to face him, water streaming down his jaw. “You sound like you’re planning to break me.”
His hand cupped my cheek. “I sound like I’m planning to keep you.”
That was worse.
He rinsed me, then handed me a towel, wrapping it around my shoulders like he was claiming responsibility for me. We moved around each other in silence, comfortable, intimate, like this was already routine.
Domestic. Dangerous. Intoxicating.
I dressed slowly, still wrapped in that post-sleep haze, my body heavy in the best way. Brennan watched me from the doorway, arms crossed, leaning like he owned the space—and me inside it.
“You’re going to be late,” he said.
“They’re my friends. They’ll wait.”
He stepped closer, hands settling on my waist like that was his natural resting place. “Text me when you get there.”
“I’m not crossing a border.”
“You’re crossing my patience,” he corrected lightly. “Text me.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. “Yes, sir.”
He kissed my temple, then my mouth, slow and deliberate. “Next shift is daytime. You’re mine again tomorrow.”
“You’re monopolizing my life.”
He chuckled, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “You like it.”
“I need to stop at home. My parents might want proof I’m alive.”
“That’s acceptable,” he said after a second, like he was granting diplomatic permission. “I’ll share you with them. Briefly.”
I laughed. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re texting me,” he reminded, handing me my bag like he was sending me off to war.
I promised, kissed him again, and escaped.
Clara and Angela didn’t even pretend this wasn’t a setup. They watched me sit down like I was a suspect entering an interrogation room with a caramel latte.
Clara clasped her hands dramatically. “So. You went home with him.”
Angela added, far too calmly, “And you did not come back with us.”
I took a sip of coffee, buying time. “Correct.”
Clara leaned forward. “And?”
“And what?”
Angela’s eyebrow lifted. “Marina.”
I sighed. “Yes. We had sex. Are you happy?”
Clara squealed, actually squealed, and slapped Angela’s arm. “I KNEW IT. We left her with him like a rom-com sacrifice and she came back glowing.”
Angela grinned. “Details. Academic purposes.”
“No.”
“Clinical purposes,” she corrected.
“It was… really good,” I admitted, cheeks warm. “Like, embarrassingly good.”
Clara gasped. “Oh my God. She’s back. Our emotionally constipated Marina is back.”
Angela leaned in, conspiratorial. “Was it the best sex of your life?”
I hesitated a second too long.
Clara’s eyes widened. “IT WAS.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You didn’t deny it.”
I laughed, covering my face. “He’s just… intense. And attentive. And very… present.”
Angela smiled. “Present is code for ‘he ruined me for other men.’”
“Stop,” I laughed, but it was impossible to hide the warmth in my chest. “He’s actually amazing. Gentle. Caring. A little possessive, yeah, but in that way that makes you feel… wanted.”
Clara fanned herself. “We love a man who thinks you’re his favorite human possession.”
My phone buzzed on the table.
Brennan: You alive?
Brennan: Text when you arrive.
Angela peeked at the screen. “He’s checking in.”
“He said he would.”
Clara grinned. “He’s territorial.”
I typed back: At the café. Surviving Clara and Angela.
His reply came instantly.
Brennan: Good. Coffee, then come back. I want you here.
Clara mouthed, I want you here, and wiggled her eyebrows.
Angela laughed. “He’s not even subtle.”
“I like that he’s not hiding me,” I said quietly. “It’s refreshing.”
Clara tilted her head. “You said he told you he liked you since forever.”
“Yeah. Since school.”
Angela slowly set her cup down. “Marina… you are a cardiologist. He’s cardiologist resident. You went medicine. He went medicine. He ended up in your hospital. As your resident.”
Clara blinked. “He followed you like a medically licensed golden retriever.”
A chill slid down my spine, thin and fast.
“Or,” Angela added, softer now, “he built his life around you.”
I laughed, but it sounded thinner than I wanted. “You’re both insane.”
Clara shrugged. “Romantic or creepy. Sometimes the difference is consent and good sex.”
I looked at Brennan’s message again. I want you here.
The words were possessive. Warm. Certain.
And a tiny, traitorous part of me wondered how much of his path had been chosen because of me.
I didn’t want him to make the same mistake I had with Jonathan—reshaping myself around someone until there was nothing left that was mine.
But right now?
Right now, I liked being wanted.
And that scared me more than the sex ever could.
I left the café still laughing, my cheeks aching from smiling too much and my chest feeling strangely light.
Angela hugged me tight like she always did when she was happy for me but pretending not to be emotional about it, and Clara whispered something obscene in my ear that made me flip her off while laughing all the way to my car.
Before starting the engine, I texted Brennan.
Going to my parents’ for a bit. Need to show signs of life so my mother doesn’t file a missing person report.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
I figured. Text me when you get there.
Then, after a second:
I’ll behave. Probably.
I snorted, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat. Liar.
The drive to my parents’ house felt familiar in that comforting, muscle-memory way.
Same streets, same turns, same internal debate about whether I was ready to walk back into that house after barely sleeping there since I’d come back to town.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love them—I did.
It was just that adulthood came with this strange distance, and lately my nights had been… occupied.
When I pulled into the driveway, my first instinct was that something was off.
There was my parents’ car. Normal.
Then Alex’s car.
I frowned.
And… another car I recognized far too well.
My stomach dropped straight to my feet.
No.
No, no, no.
He is probably at his parents next door. Right?
I sat there for a full five seconds, engine off, staring at the house like it might rearrange itself if I waited long enough. It didn’t. So I grabbed my bag, inhaled deeply, and walked in like a woman heading toward her own execution.
The moment I stepped into the living room, voices hit me.
Familiar ones.
Too familiar.
“Sweetheart, you’re finally home!” my mother said, beaming as she turned from the kitchen. “Honestly, Marina, since you came back, you barely stay here.”
I opened my mouth to respond—and then I saw him.
Brennan, sitting comfortably at our kitchen table like he belonged there. Elbows resting casually, posture relaxed, completely at ease. His parents—Claire and Jacob—were there too, chatting happily with my mother like this was the most normal thing in the world.
And Brennan was smiling.
At me.
Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.
I nearly choked on air.
“Oh,” I said brilliantly.
My mother frowned slightly. “Oh?”
“I mean—hi.”
Alex glanced up from his coffee, eyes immediately narrowing. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m a doctor,” I said quickly. “I see ghosts all the time. Very long shifts. Very crazy shit.”
My mother crossed her arms. “It’s not just the shifts, Marina.”
Brennan tilted his head, watching me with open amusement, like he was enjoying every second of my internal meltdown.
Claire smiled warmly. “It’s so good to see you again, dear.”
I nodded, still trying to reconnect my brain to my body. “You too.”
I turned to Brennan, lowering my voice. “What are you doing here?”
His lips twitched. “Visiting my parents.”
“At my parents’ house.”
“Small town,” he said lightly. “Things overlap.”
Alex let out a thoughtful hum.
I shot him a look. He sipped his coffee, unbothered.
I tried to recover, turning back to my mother. “Where’s Dad?”
“Oh, he’s just finishing his bath,” she said. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
Famous last words.
Right on cue, my father walked into the kitchen, hair still damp, holding a shirt between his fingers like it personally offended him.
“Honey,” he said to my mother, confused, “you put this in my closet, but it’s definitely not mine. It’s huge. I could camp inside this thing.”
The world slowed.
Because I knew that shirt.
I knew that shirt very, very well.
Brennan’s shirt.
The one I’d worn home that first night. The one I’d tossed into the laundry basket without thinking. The one my mother had apparently washed, folded, and assumed belonged to the only man living in this house.
My soul left my body.
Before I could speak, Claire leaned forward, squinting. “Oh! That’s Brennan’s. I bought that for him last Christmas.”
Silence.
Thick. Loud. Deafening.