29. Marcella
twenty-nine
Marcella
Two Days Later
It’s Saturday evening as I pull into the parking garage.
I’m not looking forward to an empty condo.
Seamus has been buried in the hospital all week—long hours, back-to-back cases, late-night rounds.
Some version of us still exists.
Though he didn’t text back last night when I went to dinner at my parents’ and crashed at Rosa’s.
I told myself he was busy. Tired. Distracted.
I’m trying not to read into it.
Which, for me, means I’ve already drafted a worst-case scenario and three contingency plans I’ll never admit to having.
My sister told me not to worry.
Impossible. I’m scared to death. He hasn’t been himself—then again, we really haven’t known each other long. Maybe this is himself.
Anyway, the bloom seems to be off the rose.
So when I open the door to my condo, I don’t expect to find Seamus hunched over his laptop at my dining table, surrounded by half-drunk cups of coffee and what looks like a digital graveyard of a hundred open browser tabs.
He’s wearing a navy-blue hoodie with sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair is its usual mess, like he’s been running his hands through it all afternoon. The overhead light casts sharp shadows on his face, highlighting the strain in his jaw.
He looks up when he hears me drop the keys on the counter and for a split second, the corners of his mouth lift. “You’re back.”
“I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you had to work.” I set my overnight bag down. Something about the way he doesn’t stand and cross the room to kiss me makes my stomach knot up.
He turns his laptop screen toward me. “I swapped out my hospital shifts. I’ve been putting together an important proposal.”
“Proposal?” I blink, trying to catch up. We haven’t seen each other in two days. Our texts have been pretty sparse.
“Yeah. For my R5 year.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m officially pitching a focused study on the intersection of neurosurgical pathways and female sexual function. Dr. Madison said she’d consider it if I gave her something concrete.”
My eyes widen. “Wow.”
“I pulled some of the old Stanford studies, plus the fMRI data from the Arnow trials, and I’m mapping a study to incorporate both neurological imaging and surgical case reviews.”
He’s talking fast—too fast. His words are technically enthusiastic. It’s weird, there’s no joy behind them. I’m watching someone in full panic mode.
I step closer, placing my hand on the table near his. “Sounds…ambitious.”
“It has to be.” Seamus’s mouth twitches. “If Caldwell’s going to continue ignoring me, I have to figure out a way to get through the next three years.”
There it is.
“So nothing’s changed?” I sink into the chair next to him. He’s been so tight-lipped. It’s time for him to tell me what’s going on.
He shakes his head. “Well, yes. It’s worse.
People are talking. I can feel it when I walk into the hospital.
It’s like I’ve got a target painted on my back.
” I reach for his hand, but he stands abruptly, pretending not to notice.
“Anyway. This isn’t your problem. Did you have a nice visit with your sister? ”
His back is to me as he organizes a stack of printouts. The brush-off stings.
Feeling desperate to connect to the man I love, I move behind him, press my chest to his back and slide my arms around his waist. “You’ve been working nonstop.” I trail my fingers along the tensioned line of his shoulder. “Let me take care of you.”
He exhales—shaky, uncertain. Doesn’t say no.
I shift closer and press a kiss to the back of his neck. I feel the way his entire body tenses then sags slightly. I inch my hands under his sweatshirt, palms warm against his skin, tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen. He shudders when I trail kisses to the spot just behind his ear.
“Come sit,” I whisper.
He lets me guide him, pliant but distracted, and lowers himself onto the couch with a soft grunt. I slide between his knees, the hardwood floors beneath mine, and rest my hands on his thighs.
His gaze meets mine. Open. Vulnerable.
I tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Lift up.”
He raises his hips and I ease his pants down.
His cock is already heavy and half-erect, resting against his abdomen.
He watches as I take him in my hand, stroking slow at first then more assertively.
His lashes flutter and his mouth parts slightly.
Leaning down, I lick him from root to tip before taking him fully into my mouth.
His fingers twist into the couch cushion.
There’s a beat—one long, suspended moment—where it’s just us.
The weight of him on my tongue. The soft, guttural sound he makes when I hollow my cheeks and suck. The way his hand slides to the back of my neck, not pushing, just grounding.
I close my eyes and lose myself in it. In him. In the way his thighs tense under my hands. His salty, musky taste leaking from his crown as it hits the back of my throat. The way my lips barely manage to encompass his thick cock.
Without thinking, Seamus breathes my name like it’s a prayer he’s not sure he deserves.
His hips move and buck and when he comes, it’s with a broken gasp—his whole body bows toward me, one trembling hand fisted in my hair like he’s trying to hold on to something real. I swallow everything he gives me, gently licking him clean, not stopping until I feel his fingers relax.
When I do sit back on my heels and glance up—
He’s not looking at me anymore.
His head drops into his hands, elbows on his knees, body still shaking. Not from pleasure.
From something else.
My heart squeezes so tightly I can hardly breathe.
“Seamus?” I press my hands over his. “What is it?”
He doesn’t lift his head. “I didn’t want to fall apart like this.”
“Hey.” I coax his arms down so I can see his face. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. His mouth turned down in a grimace, like he’s holding in something sharp.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice cracks. “That was…amazing. You’re perfect. It’s just—” He breaks off, like the words get caught in his throat.
“What?” The fear still creeps in like smoke under the door.
“I feel like I’m drowning,” he rasps. “I’ve been trying so hard to keep it together for you. For us. The truth is I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore. With Caldwell. With work. With everything.”
Bracing myself for the worst, I shift up beside him. Pull him into me, winding my arms around his shoulders. His damp forehead presses on my collarbone as he trembles against me. His devastation cracks me open. “Talk to me.”
“I met with Dr. Madison. She told me Caldwell…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “He’s actively building something against me to push me out.”
I feel the air leave the room. “What?”
“Oh, he’s doing it. There’s no doubt. It all makes sense now.” He slumps back against the cushions.
“Because he fucked up and you called him on it?” I’m furious.
He looks at me, broken. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I did what I did. Then Miranda…and I don’t regret helping you or her family. But Caldwell, the silence, the fucking exile—and now this? I don’t think I come back from it.”
“You don’t have to,” I say gently. “It’s a bump in the road. There’s got to be a way to move forward.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t even fathom how. Moving forward probably means leaving all of this behind.”
“Including me?” I choke out selfishly.
“I don’t know.” His voice cracks. “I don’t want to. I can’t promise anything. My professional life is in utter fucking chaos.”
I swallow the ache in my chest because I need to put big girl panties on. Shove my own terrified feelings aside and be there for him without worrying how it affects me.
“I’m not going to pressure you, baby. You’re the kindest, sweetest, most caring man I’ve ever known and I’m horrified you’re in this position.” I cup his cheek. “It’s unfair for you to have this hanging over your head and reprehensible for Caldwell to try and destroy you over his own mistake.”
He pulls me into his lap, buries his face in my shoulder. “You always make me feel like I’m enough.”
“You are.” I press my forehead to his.
God. What have I walked into tonight? Even though I knew something was off the second I walked in—I didn’t expect this. I have no idea how to help him other than allowing him to work through his complicated situation without me trying to influence him one way or the other.
His arms are still around my waist when I say, “I need to ask you something.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.
I wait.
“You can be honest. Are you questioning our relationship?” My voice cracks. “Or is this only about Caldwell?”
His head drops to my shoulder. The silence between us is like an icy wind permeating the warmth between our bodies.
“I don’t know,” Seamus admits. “Maybe both. Maybe they’re the same thing.”
It hits me like a slap.
I pull away enough to see his face. “Oh?”
“You asked for honesty and the truth is, I wouldn’t be questioning this—us—if you hadn’t needed me to go against him.
Then again, if I hadn’t…” he swallows hard, “if I hadn’t been in her surgery I wouldn’t have spent the last two months wondering whether I destroyed my entire career because I didn’t play politics right.
On the other hand, I wouldn’t have met you and you’re the best thing in my life right now. ”
The lump in my throat threatens to rise. “You testified because it was the right thing to do.”
“Was it entirely the right thing to do?” Something raw and unguarded flickers behind his eyes.
His words slice through my gut. “What are you saying, Seamus?”
“Marcella, I beat off to your picture every fucking night from the day and hour I saw you. I wanted you desperately, despite the fact you were a threat to my own career. Maybe I was so infatuated with you—what I felt, what I wanted—that I didn’t stop to think how my cooperation would play out.
Or if you—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
“If I what?” I demand. “If I used you?”