7. Mireya #2
My gaze traveled up to his arms and the way his shirt fit across his shoulders. He’d always looked impressive in his white coat at the hospital but up close he was even more overwhelming.
I forced my focus back to my plate and swallowed a piece of tofu despite my pulse being too loud in my ears.
“Mireya?”
I looked up too quickly. Riven was watching me, those steel-gray eyes narrowed slightly in assessment—the same look he used when evaluating surgical complications.
The way he looked at me made my breathing falter.
“Sorry, what?” I asked.
“I asked if the food tasted okay,” he said.
“Oh. Yes. It tastes good.” I nodded frantically.
“You have barely touched it,” he said pointing towards my plate.
“I'm not very hungry,” I said.
Emma looked at both of us with a smile that told me she was enjoying herself far too much. “The tension in here is so thick right now,” she said.
“Emma,” Riven said in a warning tone.
“What? I'm only pointing out facts,” she said. She stood with her container and lifted it in both hands. “I'm going to eat in my room and watch that show. You two have fun with whatever this is.”
She walked down the hall before we could protest.
Silence washed through the kitchen. It felt heavy and awkward. I lifted my chopsticks again and stared at the food like it could save me from the moment.
“How are you adjusting?” Riven asked after a pause.
“Fine. Good,” I said too quickly. “The guest room is really comfortable.”
“Good,” he said.
More silence followed. I glanced up and found him still watching me. His eyes traveled over my face, almost like he was memorizing me. Something in that gaze warmed my skin and prickled the back of my neck at the same time.
“Do I have something on my face?” I asked, already bringing my napkin towards my lips.
“No,” he said simply.
“Then why are you staring?” I asked. The question came out more confrontational than intended.
“I'm not staring,” he shrugged and leaned back into his chair. He made no effort to look away.
“You’re definitely staring,” I countered.
His mouth tugged in a faint almost-smile that barely reached his eyes but transformed his entire face. “Maybe I am,” he admitted quietly.
"Why?" My voice came out breathier than I liked.
“I don't know,” he said. He set his chopsticks down and leaned back slightly on his stool. “You’re different here than at the hospital.”
I raised a brow. “In what way?”
"Softer. Less guarded." His voice stayed calm but his eyes held mine with uncomfortable intensity. "I like it."
My heart stuttered, then reset itself at a faster pace. “Oh,” I said.
"Oh?" he echoed, that almost-smile deepening slightly.
“I don't know what to say to that,” I admitted.
I opened my mouth to say something else, but no words formed.
I wanted to say that he felt different here too. That seeing him in sweatpants and t-shirts instead of white coats and surgical scrubs made him seem more real.
Instead of saying any of that, my mouth betrayed me. “Your biceps are really defined,” I heard myself say.
His eyebrows rose slowly, deliberately. “What?”
Oh no. Did I say that out loud?
“I mean, from a medical point of view,” I rushed out, words tumbling over each other. “You must work out a lot. Good cardiovascular health is important.” I was making everything worse and I knew it. “For surgery, I mean. Stamina is important for long procedures.”
Stop talking, Mireya. Please stop talking.
“Right,” he said. His voice held a low amused yet knowing edge. “Stamina.”
“And your hands are big,” I added because my brain had fully abandoned me. “Which is good for surgery. Easier to hold instruments. Better grip.”
I wanted the floor to swallow me alive and drag me straight into the center of the earth.
A genuine smile tugged at his mouth, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Are you finished evaluating my physical attributes from a medical point of view?” he asked, barely suppressed laughter threading his voice.
“Yes,” I whispered, mortified. “Sorry. That was weird.”
“It was,” he agreed as he stood. He began gathering the containers without hurry. “But I didn’t mind.”
He walked to the sink and ran water over the plastic bowls. My eyes betrayed me again. They traveled over his shoulders, watching how the fabric pulled across muscle.
They traveled down his back, watching the way his spine shifted under his shirt. They traveled lower, catching where his jeans rested on his hips.
My pulse jumped in my throat and I briefly wondered what was broken inside me to cause this reaction.
I looked down at my phone to distract myself and checked the date. My eyes widened as I counted backward.
Everything suddenly made horrible sense.
Oh. Oh no.
I was ovulating.
That explained the hyperawareness. That explained why my eyes kept tracking the lines of his body.
That explained why my brain kept offering wildly inappropriate thoughts about what those large, capable hands could do besides hold surgical instruments.
I needed to exit the kitchen before I humiliated myself further. I needed to get away before I told him his thighs also looked unfairly good in those jeans.
“I should go to bed,” I announced, shooting up from the stool so fast that the bottom scraped loudly across the floor. “Early morning tomorrow. Need sleep. Thank you for dinner.”
I practically sprinted to my room.
Sleep refused to come. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling until well past midnight, my mind refusing to shut down. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Riven's hands and forearms and shoulders and that quiet, assessing stare across the kitchen island.
Eventually, I gave up and climbed out of bed, padding back to the kitchen to make chamomile tea, hoping it would calm the chaos in my head.
The kitchen was dark except for ambient city light filtering through the windows. I switched on the small light above the stove and filled the kettle, trying to move quietly.
I turned to find Riven in the doorway wearing gray sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt that clung to his chest in ways that absolutely didn’t help my current situation.
Stop it, Mireya. Get a grip.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” he said as he stepped inside. “I could not sleep.” He reached for another mug. “Are you making tea?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, already pulling down a second tea bag.
“It's your kitchen,” I said with a shrug.
“It's yours too,” he corrected gently. "For now.”
When the water boiled, we poured and waited for the tea to steep. Then we ended up seated across from each other at the kitchen island, cradling warm mugs between our hands.
“Emma's doing really well,” I said, defaulting to safe professional territory. “All her vitals have been consistently normal.”
“Good,” he said. He wrapped both hands around his mug. “Thank you for taking such good care of her.”
“It's my job,” I said automatically.
He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his tea. "Why did you become a nurse?" he asked.
“My mom got sick when I was sixteen,” I started. “She had pneumonia. The nurses were kind and skilled and I wanted to do that for other families too.” I drank my tea and stared at the steam.
I exhaled. “That’s not the whole truth, though.”
He waited without interrupting. He didn’t push. He let the quiet fill the space until I filled it instead.
“My dad left when I was sixteen,” I said.
“He walked out one day and never came back. My mom was left with two kids and no savings.” My voice stayed steady at first. “I became the parent overnight. I made sure Lyra got to school, handled money, learned which bills could be delayed and how to stretch groceries for weeks.”
My throat tightened but the words kept flowing.
“I needed a job that paid well enough to take care of everyone. Nursing made sense. Good pay, stable work, and always in demand. So I became the strong one. The one who held everything together. The one who didn’t need anything because needing things meant failing the people who depended on me. ”
My voice shook. “And I'm so tired, Riven.” My voice cracked. “I'm tired of holding everything. I'm tired of being the solution to everyone else's problems. I'm tired of fixing everything while I'm drowning.”
Tears escaped before I could stop them. I wiped them away with my sleeve, angry at myself for crying at all.
“I just want to rest,” I whispered. “I want to smell flowers and take walks and not worry about rent or medical bills or whether my mom can afford her treatments.
And saying that makes me feel selfish. It makes me feel like a horrible person because I'm supposed to be strong.”
“You’re not a bad person,” Riven said quietly, his voice cutting through my spiral.
I looked up through blurred vision. His gray eyes held a warmth that felt like a steady hand on a wound.
“You're not bad for being tired,” he continued. “You're not bad for wanting rest. You're not bad for needing help. None of that makes you weak or selfish.”
“Then what does it make me?” I asked, the question emerging as a broken whisper.
"Human," he said simply. "Just human."
The word struck me square in the chest, stealing my breath.
I let out a shaky laugh while wiping tears. “Human. Right.”
“That’s all any of us are,” he said. “Just humans trying to manage impossible situations and doing the best we can.”
We sat in silence. I cried quietly. He didn't look away, didn't tell me to stop, didn't offer empty platitudes. He just let me exist without having to perform strength.
City lights danced across his face, softening the sharp angles. His gray eyes held something warm and gentle that made the room feel smaller, more intimate.
What would his mouth taste like?
The thought hit me like a bolt of electricity.
'I should go back to bed.' I stood so quickly I nearly knocked my mug over.
His eyebrows flew up. “Oh.”
“I should at least try to sleep.” I quickly backed up.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
We walked down the hallway together, our footsteps silent on the hardwood. We stopped where it split—his master suite to the left, my guest room to the right.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “For listening.”
“You don't need to thank me,” he said.
“I want to.”
He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes held mine, and something in them made my breath catch hard, my pulse kicking against my ribs.
The air between us felt charged, heavy with possibility and restraint.
“Goodnight, Mireya,” he said finally, his voice rough.
“Goodnight, Riven,” I whispered.