36. Seamus
thirty-six
Seamus
Six Months Later
It’s fucking cold.
Boston’s a frozen postcard—too bright, too clean, too cheery.
Marcella tugs her red knit hat over her ears and loops her arm through mine like we belong here.
Maybe we do.
The icy air nips at my face when we step out of the hotel, our breath visible with every exhale. It’s December and the city’s wrapped in an end-of-year hum—twinkling lights in the trees, street musicians playing jazz near the corner of Harvard Square, a kid trying to juggle while wearing mittens.
I’m still riding the high from my presentation this morning at Harvard Medical School to neurosurgical staff. I’m not sure what I expected.
Definitely not a packed room.
Instead of awkward silence or schoolboy snickering—which, let’s be honest, I half expected after presenting a neuroanatomical breakdown of the female orgasm—I got a standing ovation.
A few muffled chuckles, sure. A flushed med student or two ducking their heads.
Mostly? Serious questions. Respectful curiosity.
Three different professors asked if I’d consider coming back to teach or taking on a full-time research fellowship.
At Harvard Fucking Medical School.
Marcella was in the back row, grinning like she knew something the rest of the room hadn’t figured out yet. Well, I guess she does because she’s the beneficiary of most of my research. Seriously, though, she’s always told me I’d be great at public speaking. Her support gave me confidence.
I can’t wipe the grin off my face when I look at her. The kind of love we share really does something to you.
“You gonna tell me what you’re smiling about or gape at me like a psychopath?” Marcella bumps my hip with hers as we pass a bookstore window full of leather-bound journals and expensive, pretentious pens no one actually uses.
I laugh. “If things work out, I’m wondering how we’re gonna explain my profession to our moms.”
“Oh God.” Marcella stops and puts her gloved hands up to her mouth. “I never thought about it.”
I shake my head and wince. “Your mom will be like, ‘What kind of fellowship is it, Seamus?’ I’ll say, ‘Female sexual response in relation to neuroanatomical stimulation and cortical response mapping,’ and she’ll faint.”
“She’s Spanish. She won’t faint. She’ll pour you a sangria and pray for your soul.” Marcella mimics a prayer. “I’m more interested in what you’re going to tell your brothers.”
I make a pinching motion with my fingers. “I’ll say I’m mapping the clitoris. I’ll be a hero.”
She swats my face with the fluffy end of the scarf.
“Seriously.” I laugh. “I love surgery. This research is a game changer. I’ve spent so long trying to prove to Caldwell I deserve to be in the OR. With Madison and this work, I’m creating something of my own instead of trying to measure up.”
I smile to myself at the thought of Caldwell. It's funny, he didn’t blow up when he found out Marcella and I were a couple a few months ago. No threats, no terse warnings—only a long, tired sigh and a dry, “Well, I guess it explains some things.”
He hasn’t mentioned it since. Things are…fine. Neutral. Every now and then I catch a look in his eyes—less judgment, more resignation. He knows who I am. Who he is.
Now who we are.
She beams. “I love you so much.”
“So, business as usual, then?” We stop at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for the walk signal. She shivers slightly, and I tug her closer. “Still cold?”
“I seem to always be cold right now.” Marcella puts her hand in my coat pocket.
With my free hand, I tug my scarf loose and wind it around her neck. “We could go back inside where I could warm you up properly.”
“Save it for after pizza. I’m starving.” She arches a brow.
We find a cozy spot off Brattle Street, an old-world place with brick walls and a wood-burning oven. We’re seated in five minutes.
“You know, if this law thing doesn’t work out,” I pick up the menu, “you could have a career in managing problematic neurosurgeons.”
“Only if they’re as hot as you… Orgasm Whisperer .” She reaches for my hand across the table.
I thread my fingers between hers. “Today was the first time in months I didn’t feel like the guy who almost got kicked out of his program.”
“You were never that guy.” She tilts her head.
I boop her nose. “I was . For a while. It’s behind us now.”
Our waitress brings wine, pizza, and some saucy dish smelling of garlic and heaven. We eat like we haven’t in days—hands brushing as we reach for another slice, mouths full, eyes lazy with heat and Chianti.
After dinner, we walk. Harvard Square at night is magic.
Bookstores glowing like lanterns, buskers performing half-frozen versions of 90s ballads, the sound of late-night coffee orders drifting from a nearby café.
There’s laughter in the air, floating over cobblestone and making the cold feel romantic instead of cruel.
She tugs me into a narrow alley lit by fairy lights strung overhead, the bulbs glowing amber against the dark. It’s quiet here, tucked away from the city hum. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me like she’s starving. Like she’s missed me, even though I’ve been beside her all night.
“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, voice warm against my lips. “You were incredible today.”
I cup her cheeks, brushing my thumbs beneath her eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, and it’s so certain I feel it in my bones. “Even with the tie slightly askew and the nervous lip twitch.”
I gripe. “The lip twitch is genetic. Blame Rory.”
“It was hot. Made you human. You’re usually so—” She laughs as her hands slide to my chest. “ Perfect.”
I kiss her again, slower this time. Promising her everything—later, always, forever. “You’re my favorite person,”
On the way back to the hotel, we pause at a coffee cart, the scent of espresso rising in clouds of steam. She orders a hot chocolate. I get tea.
“Dr. Madison was right, you know,” Marcella adds, blowing over the cup. “About making amends. About choosing to see the gray.”
Marcella had the fertility consult with her a couple months ago. I’m glad I pushed for it, if I’m honest. We’re not ready. Soon, though, and improving our odds of starting a family when my residency is behind me is a massive priority.
Instead, I say, “She’s the reason this project exists. The reason I want to continue this full-time when I’m done.”
Marcella nudges me with her shoulder, like she’s holding something back.
“What?” I squint at her over the rim of my cup.
She bites her lip. “Speaking of full-time…I didn’t want to bug you when you were preparing for the presentation. Remember last week when I had lunch with Zoey Pearson? The thing is…I applied for something.”
My brows lift. At first I thought it was strange she was having lunch with Connor’s bandmate’s wife, until I remembered they worked at the same law firm once upon a time. I didn’t even think to ask how it went.
“Zoey is the Chair of the Board for the Rainier Foundation.” She gives a small, excited smile. “Next week, I’m meeting her again with their CEO, Shay Andrews. They’re looking to hire an in-house General Counsel.”
This shocks me to my core. Marcella hasn’t mentioned wanting to leave the firm for months. “You applied?”
“I’m pretty sure the job is mine if I want it.
It’s very different than what I’m used to.
A big opportunity nonetheless.” She bites her lip.
“Arts in schools, equity work, all of it. The foundation’s exploded in the last year.
I think I could really do something good there.
It pays well and would reduce my stress level considerably. ”
“You’d crush it,” I say, no hesitation. “They’d be lucky to have you.”
She blushes and glances away. I catch the little smile she can’t hold back.
What an excellent, wonderful day.
We head back to the hotel, fingers laced. Once we’re inside, we throw our coats on the couch and kick off our boots.
The room’s bathed in amber light, cast from the antique sconces along the walls and the soft glow of the city below. Harvard Square sprawls out beneath us, a living painting—shop lights flickering, students rushing through cold air, the occasional flash of headlights from a passing bus.
Marcella stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, her reflection mirrored back at us in the glass.
She watches me as she strips down to her bra and panties, curves illuminated in the glass like some goddess only I get to touch.
She’s not posing, not trying. She’s glorious and real, the woman I’d do anything for.
I come up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. My hands skim the softness of her belly, the dip of her hips. I rest my chin on her shoulder.
“You see?” I murmur against her neck, nodding toward the window where Harvard Square is still buzzing. “I want to fuck you against this window while all those people are oblivious below.”
She hums, arching her back slightly into my chest. “Can they see us?”
“If they can, lucky them. They’ll see how much you turn me on.” I kiss her neck. “How much my cock loves being inside you.”
Her laugh is low and rich, and I feel it in my chest.
I kiss down the slope of her shoulder, then lower the straps of her bra.
She watches us in the window as I trail my fingers along her sides, slowly, reverently, easing her out of the last of her clothes.
Her reflection flushes with color, and mine—tall, broad, utterly wrapped around her like a stormfront.
When I sink to my knees behind her, she gasps, one hand reaching up to brace against the glass. I spread her open and taste her slowly, deliberately, until her thighs are shaking and her voice catches in her throat. “ Seamus —”
I rise again, covering her body with mine. She’s so warm, so soft, and I’m already hard, pressing into the small of her back. I nudge her legs apart with my knee and yank her ass toward me. Press myself against her entrance. The first thrust has both of us moaning.
Her hands flatten against the glass as I slide in and out of her from behind, slow and deep. I hold her hips steady, watching us reflected together—the way she arches, the flush on her cheeks, the way her breasts bounce with every motion.
I’ve never seen anything more erotic than us, right here, right now.
“This okay?” I whisper against her neck.
She nods, breathless. “Oh, yeah.”
I clutch her tightly, my rhythm steady. Hungry.
We move together, bodies slapping in sync, pleasure curling around us like the night air outside.
She watches herself, biting her lip as I drive into her again and again, never breaking eye contact with our reflection.
It’s not about dominance or power—it’s intimacy. Raw and real.
Us .
“I love you so fucking much,” I grunt. “You hear me, Marcella? I love fucking every inch of you. Every sound you make when I fuck you. Every damn part of your body.”
She cries out when she comes, her whole body trembling against the glass, and the sound undoes me. I follow her over the edge, teeth at her shoulder, arms wrapped tight like I can anchor us both there forever.
When we finally still, the city keeps moving beneath us—horns, footsteps, the hum of life not pausing for anyone. Up here, it’s her and me. Breathless. Joined. Whole.
In the quiet that follows and the way she melts back into my arms, I hear it—the ache of something rare and lasting. A wistful whisper of everything we almost lost, and everything we still get to build.
Ours.
Always.
Forever.