Chapter 9
Nine
“Give me another batch of medicine.”
That night, after dinner with Dad and Adam—a weird, comfortable blur of noise and half-finished sentences—I finally slid into bed.
Muscles aching, lungs still a little tight from the remnants of my sickness.
Heart even tighter and skin slightly shivering into tiny goosebumps.
I was hot, I was cold, depending on where my thoughts wandered off at a given moment.
What he’d done to me… took my pieces, in my sickness and at my worst, and put me whole, twice. Without asking anything in return.
My thoughts were buzzing, but the house was quiet. Moonlight spilled in through the blinds, silvering the wooden floorboards. I lay there, tangled in the sheets, the faint hum of Glen Hansard from Paul’s curated playlist still trailing from my phone and through my earbuds.
And then the screen lit up.
Paul:
Feeling better yet? Or do I need to personally deliver another batch of medicine?
I smiled the slow, private kind, just under my nose.
Me:
Recovering, slowly. Slightly feverish still, mind fog. Although pretty sure your earlier… remedy helped more than anything from the pharmacy.
And then he was there again, invading my space, the way he had since he had emailed me back a couple of weeks ago, but only when I invited him.
Paul:
You can say it, you know.
It was an orgasm, Alicia. Well, two, to be precise.
Heat climbed up my neck, pooling beneath my skin. I stared at the message and laughed a little under my breath. Buried my face in my pillow for a second before answering, as I wasn’t quite familiar with such open dialogue, yet.
Me:
Thanks for the clarification, doctor.
Paul:
Just making sure we’re medically aligned.
And willing to prescribe again, anytime. Unlimited refills, by the way.
I bit my lip. Imagined his voice low and lazy in my ear, the way it had been when he kissed me senseless. His hands everywhere. His mouth, so intoxicating that it felt unfair.
Me:
You should put that on your LinkedIn profile.
Paul:
“Certified in stress relief and extremely effective orgasms.”
Sounds professional, don’t you think?
I laughed again, feeling lighter than I had in days. But then, right when I expected him to keep teasing, he changed direction, like a slow shift in the wind.
Paul:
Joking aside.
You realize by now this is more, way more, than an office fling, right?
My fingers froze over the keyboard, with a slight tremble in my hand. Something inside me, something raw and not yet healed, tightened and stretched at the same time. I couldn’t bring myself to an immediate reply.
Paul:
I don’t do this. Not like this.
You must feel it too.
It wasn’t a question or even a confession. It was an acknowledgment of something neither of us had dared name aloud until now: that it wasn’t just lust, it hadn’t started like that. It was a fragile recovery, a slow awakening of desire, a slight tectonic movement of two souls.
Because for the first time since the crash, since the hospital walls swallowed me, since the endless, polite stares and the fragile conversations, someone looked at me and saw me, over the injuries and over the scars.
And I was beginning to see him in ways that probably not many people knew. This passion, his music, the depth of his eyes, his care for me, and the need to put me whole.
And it wasn’t sweet or perfect: it was heavy and thrilling and terrifying all at once. Was he the calm or the storm? I couldn’t tell yet. I typed, then erased, then typed again.
Me:
I don’t know what this is yet.
But I feel it. Every minute and every blue-eyed gaze, just like the stormy ocean.
His reply came instantly, as if he hadn’t been able to breathe without hearing it.
Paul:
Good.
Because it’s driving me insane.
Another heartbeat.
Paul:
If I could, I’d be there now.
Me:
You were already here today.
Paul:
That wasn’t enough. Not even close.
I squeezed the phone in my hand like it was the only thing connecting me to Earth’s gravity. And then, after a pause long enough that I thought maybe he had fallen asleep, another message slid in.
Paul:
Next time, Alicia, I’m not leaving until you’re completely undone. Every scar, every tremble, every stubborn part of you: I want it. If you let me.
The world tilted under me. Was it too fast? Too much? Or was that just my old fear of falling talking? Because even if I didn’t have the words yet, even if I wasn’t ready to admit it, somewhere, deep down, I already knew.
I didn’t sleep much that night. Somewhere around 4 a.m., the fever and weird sounds in my chest finally faded, leaving behind only a simmering, restless energy.
By the next evening, I was sitting upright in bed, hair damp from a shower, feeling almost human again.
My limbs ached less. My head cleared enough that the walls of my room no longer tilted if I moved too fast.
No more doctor Andersen visits. Not because the idea didn’t tempt me, but because showing restraint around him was becoming nearly impossible. And because, if I was honest, I wasn’t sure how I would survive him putting me back together before I went completely insane.
I was finally ready to get back to work.
It’s not like it was a glorious job, but it was a decent temporary anchor, and Mia was there.
I missed her nonsensical approach to life and time with her.
I wish I had her resilience and admired her anti-fragility every day.
So much had happened during the past two weeks, but I wasn’t sure yet how much I wanted to tell her, and whether there was anything to tell, yet.
Still, the late-night conversations with Paul continued, filling the spaces between us with something dense and warm, and a thread pulled tighter with every word.
The night before I returned to work, my phone buzzed on the nightstand just as I was climbing into bed, hair still damp and a towel clinging to my body.
Paul:
You’re awake. Again. Always. Seems like a thing.
Me:
Psychic now, are we?
Paul:
Learning how to read you. You’re not the easiest book, but you’re a delicious one.
My fingers hesitated over the screen.
Paul:
Hand steady tonight?
I glanced at it: still trembling, faintly, like a tiny seismic shift under the skin.
Me:
Better. :)
Paul:
Good.
And the scar? The one you always reach for without thinking?
I pressed my palm lightly to my collarbone, as if he could feel it through the distance.
Me:
Hurts sometimes. Not bad tonight.
A pause.
Paul:
I want to kiss it better.
A slow, dangerous warmth slid through my body. I pulled the towel up higher, like that would stop the heat blooming under my skin.
Paul:
What are you wearing?
I stared at the screen. Was he serious?
Paul:
Are you hiding from me, Alicia King?
Me:
Old shorts and a T-shirt. Nothing sexy.
Paul:
You’re wrong.
You have no idea how sexy a girl in a messy sweatshirt or a hoodie can be.
I squeezed my eyes shut, overwhelmed, laughing a little in disbelief. He was so good at this; these things seemed so effortless for him, but it didn’t feel like a game.
Paul:
And now you’re laughing under the covers. Blushing, maybe?
Me:
Maybe.
Paul:
I can picture you.
Hair still damp. Skin warm from the shower. Smile trying to hide itself. Alive.
I didn’t know what to say to that. Something tight unfurled in my chest, something almost painful.
Paul:
You’re becoming alive, aren’t you?
Me:
Yes.
It was the simplest, truest thing I’d said all day.
Paul:
That’s all I wanted.
Another buzz.
New additions from @PChinaski to New songs for you. He sent music when words became too meaningless. It seemed this was how he stayed close without getting caught.
Paul:
Be safe tomorrow, Alicia, at Tommo. Heard some IT guys roam the office corridors now.
I opened the playlist: Joker and the Thief.
Cigarettes after Sex. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
Massive Attack, a sleepy John Mayer track I hadn’t heard before.
Songs that bled slow sadness and melancholy spun into melody.
Songs that made you ache your heart out.
I wasn’t sure if they were about loneliness or about survival, but somehow, I knew they were about him.
And a thought that he shared the deepest parts of himself through music.
I changed into my PJs, tucked the phone away, and fell into a deep sleep, to the thought that perhaps someone out there had made something just for me, and that this wasn’t just another fall.