27. Marcella
twenty-seven
Marcella
A Few Weeks Later
The apartment’s too quiet.
Not peaceful—lonely.
The silence amplifies everything I’ve come to miss.
I’m still in the pencil skirt I swore I’d change out of two hours ago, slumped sideways on the couch with my blouse half-unbuttoned and my laptop burning a hole into my thighs.
The only sound is the occasional ping of my inbox, which I ignore at this late hour.
A bag of Thai food sits untouched on the counter. I’m not hungry. It’s not fun to eat alone. Not anymore.
It’s been several weeks since Seamus and I detonated every last rule we set between us. Two months of eye contact to make my stomach flip. Orgasms that should be illegal. Most of all, intimacy with an incredible man has snuck in the back door and I'll never be the same.
Over the holidays we lived in a suspended state of domesticity.
Soft, rainy mornings and long showers. Sex whenever we wanted.
Snuggling together like the world didn’t exist outside my high-rise.
In the new year, he moved in without a conversation.
First, his toothbrush and toiletries. Then a selection of hoodies, graphic Ts and jeans.
Now piles of scrubs are neatly stacked and tucked into the corner of my closet.
Effortless.
Sadly, the past couple of weeks have been different. Seamus is practically a ghost.
Even though I thought I understood the pressure he was under, I was very, very wrong. The neurosurgery program doesn’t mess around. His schedule is brutal—lab work for much of the day, as many elective surgeries as he can manage, not to mention coursework, seminars, rounds.
To add to his stress, Caldwell is pretending Seamus doesn’t exist. It's been two full months of silent treatment.
Punishment, I guess. Abstractly, I figured this would happen when Seamus decided to cooperate with me.
And while I don't think he'd change a thing, I feel guilty.
His career is in jeopardy because of me.
On top of everything, his brother, Cillian entered rehab a week ago. Seamus carries the weight like it’s his fault.
So, yeah. Things feel different. Heavier.
Our bubble sure didn't last long.
What's worse is my schedule isn't any better. A new case has me tangled up in surgical malpractice hell once again. This time a botched facelift has turned into a PR nightmare for a tech billionaire’s wife.
Her face is not only deformed, it won't move at all.
Between the surgeon's gaslighting campaign and her husband spiraling into scary rages, I’m caught between legal firestorms and my own moral compass.
I find myself wondering, is this any way to live?
I glance at the time. Already past ten. Again.
The door clicks. The sound sends something warm through my whole body. He’s home.
Seamus walks in like a man at the end of a war—drenched hoodie clinging to him, scrub pants rumpled, hair flattened by a wet beanie. His eyes find mine, bloodshot and exhausted, but there’s a flicker.
Every time he looks at me, it feels like a promise whispered across lifetimes.
“Hey.” His face lights up as I cross the room before he can take another step.
Seamus drops his bag with a thud and folds into me. His arms slide around my waist and he buries his face in my neck.
I rub my hands up and down his biceps. “You’re soaked.”
“Ah, it’s nothing. You know the drill, we’re native. Umbrellas are for wussies.” He smirks.
I laugh under my breath. “Seattle: where dreams go to mildew.”
We stand there for a long moment, breathing the same air. I hold him a little tighter. He lets me.
“Sixteen hours?” I mutter and scatter kisses on his jaw.
“Yup.” He steps back and smooths my hair away from my face. “Caldwell passed me three times today. I could’ve lit myself on fire and he still wouldn’t have looked at me.”
I search his face. “Do you want to eat?”
“Yes—I’d like to eat you.” He manages a grin.
It should sound cheesy. It doesn’t. It sounds honest. Raw. We haven’t had sex in a couple days, which seems like weeks considering how much we’d been going at it previously.
Now’s probably not the time, though. I guide him to the couch, fingers laced in his. “Sit. I’ll get you a towel.”
“I love you.” He sounds wrecked, like the day sanded him down to the nerve.
Tension bunches in my core as I head toward the bedroom. “Love you too.”
I mean it. Every inch of me knows Seamus is the one for me. I also know this—what we’re building—isn’t easy. It’s not going to get easier. Not with the life each of us has chosen.
I return with a towel and crouch in front of him, my knees protesting the position. “Lift,” I demand.
Seamus leans forward, eyes half-lidded, and I pull his drenched hoodie over his head. His scrub top sticks to his skin, damp with rain and dried sweat, and I peel it off too.
He doesn’t resist, just watches me like I’m his savior. “You gonna undress me every night?”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll make a chart and everything.”
I towel off his waves gently, raking my fingers through them, and he sighs so deeply it feels like something inside him loosens. The towel drops to his shoulders and I lean in, pressing a kiss to the space above his heart. He’s warm, solid, alive.
“You don’t have to talk about today,” I whisper. “But, you can.”
“I’m just so tired.” The words are barely audible. “I keep wondering if I made the wrong call. Going back. Pushing through. Acting like it doesn’t bother me Caldwell’s icing me out while everyone else pretends it’s normal.”
I crawl into his lap without thinking, straddling him carefully, the towel draping us both like a cloak. My hands frame his face. “You didn’t make the wrong call. He’s the one being reckless, not you. You’re not alone, Seamus. You’re not.”
There’s a war behind his eyes. I kiss his forehead. His nose. His cheek. Then I hold him. Until the shaking stops. Until the shallow breaths even out.
“I hate Caldwell taking up space in your head.” I stroke his chest. “After everything.”
“I can handle the pressure. I always knew the risk that doing the right thing by Miranda could tank my residency.” He palms my lower back and tugs me toward him. “It’s a weird vibe at the hospital. I feel like everyone’s watching me.”
I set down my mug and turn to him. “Because of him?”
He nods, jaw tight. “He’s the head of my program. If he wants to ice me out, doors will close. Slowly. Quietly. I’m working with a lot of other surgeons right now, which is normal during research year…” He exhales, frustrated. “I can feel it. Something’s shifted.”
“Could you switch specialties?” I hate how helpless I sound.
“No. It would be starting over.” He shakes his head. “I’ve come too far. I’m halfway through my residency. I love neurosurgery. I can’t let this derail my dream.”
I struggle to find words. “I’m sorry, baby…”
“Don’t. It’s not your fault.” He puts his finger to my lips. “I made a choice. I’d make it again. I don’t know what comes next. I’ll fight for what I believe in.”
I shift to the side of him, curling one leg under me as I study his face. He’s not just tired. He’s…worn thin. Like something’s slowly eating away at him, and he’s been trying to outpace it for weeks. “Could you transfer? I mean—if Caldwell keeps making things worse, would another school take you?”
He leans his head back and stares up at the ceiling like it holds the answer. “I don’t want to leave Seattle. My family’s here. You’re here. Everything I love is here.”
His words should comfort me, right? He doesn’t want to leave. He’s factoring me into the calculus.
Instead, it makes my mind race.
“Did you ever try to talk to him?” Even though he said it isn’t my fault, let’s be honest. He’s only in this situation because of me. All I want to do is fix the mess I made for him. “You were close before all this happened.”
Seamus lets out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“Right. March into his office and ask him why he’s been treating me like a radioactive threat.
” He shakes his head sadly. “I used to be one of his favorites, you know? The golden boy. First in, last out. The one my mentors wanted in their OR. Now I walk into a room and it goes quiet. Conversations stop. People watch me like I’ve got a knife in my coat.
” His voice drops. “I feel like a snitch. Like I betrayed some unspoken rule.”
I place a hand on his thigh, grounding him. “You did it for Miranda.”
“I know.” He meets my eyes, and the hurt in them punches through me. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it matters to any of them. Not in this competitive world. People are scared. Caldwell’s got power. Influence. They’re protecting themselves.”
I reach for his hand and thread my fingers through his.
“I’m with you,” I say softly.
I mean it.
Deep down, though, selfish, rotten fear coils tight in my stomach. If things get worse for Seamus—if he has to leave the program, the city, this life—what would it mean for us?
He’s younger. Brilliant. Gorgeous. Talented.
His whole future is out in front of him and I don’t want to be the reason he walks away from his dream. What if our bubble was temporary? A warm, safe, fragile space meant to be limited. What if it can’t possibly hold up now the outside world has seeped back in?
“You’ve gone quiet.” He pulls me closer.
“I’m spacing out,” I lie, squeezing his hand tighter. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever comes next.”
Deep down, I wonder about our timing. If it will find a way to pull us apart.
His arms wind around me tighter, pulling me in until there’s no space left between us.
We stay pressed together for a while, our bodies heavy, the apartment hushed but humming with quiet tension.
Not necessarily bad. The kind when you’re both dealing with internal conflicts you’re not ready to admit out loud.
Eventually, I coax him off the couch. He follows me into the bedroom, slow and reluctant, like his bones are heavier tonight.
He sits on the edge of the bed while I get undressed.
When I turn back, he’s already peeled off his scrub pants and is sitting in his boxers, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.
“You want tea?” I move toward him. “Or whiskey?”
His eyes flick up, and there’s a glint of mischief in them, just for a second. “Neither. Get your ass in bed.”
“You get in, this is my side.” I laugh and tug back the sheets.
He does. Quietly. Easily. Like gravity’s stronger between us than anywhere else.
We lie there in the dark, my head on his chest, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of my shoulder. There’s nothing sexual about it. Nothing demanding. Just skin and breath and an unspoken promise we’re here for each other. Even when life is hard.
At least I hope so.
“I love you.” I kiss his chest.
He exhales like I’ve given him a gift. “I love you so much, Marcella.”
We fall asleep wrapped in each other. Two people doing the best we can.
For tonight, it’s enough.