13. #2
"Hey," I say again as I get closer.
"Hey," he repeats.
Up close, I can see the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. His hair is slightly messy, like he's been running his hands through it. He takes a quick sip from the water bottle.
"Did you just finish working out?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says. "Home gym in the back."
Knew it.
"Must be nice," I mumble.
He gives a small smile. "It has its perks."
There's a quiet beat between us.
Then he gestures toward the door. "Let's get you inside. It's cold out here."
I follow him inside. The house is just as sleek and calm as I remember—dark floors, clean lines, soft lighting. Everything in its place.
The first time I was here, I felt like I was stepping into a different world.
Now it just feels barely familiar.
Grant heads toward the kitchen. "Want some water?"
"Sure."
He fills a glass and hands it to me before gesturing toward the couch. "You can sit."
I settle onto the same dark sectional as before. He sits a little farther away this time, not as close as he had last time.
The difference doesn't go unnoticed.
I take a sip of water. "Feels weird being back here."
"How so?"
"The first time I came over, I thought you were going to lecture me about professional boundaries or something."
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. "And now?"
"Now I feel like I'm about to be called into the principal's office."
That makes him chuckle, but it's short-lived.
The smile fades.
Grant sets his glass down on the coffee table, fingers lingering against the rim like he's buying himself a few extra seconds.
"I asked you to come tonight because I needed to talk to you about something," he says.
Something in his tone makes my stomach tighten.
"What is it?"
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor for a moment before he finally looks at me.
"I think it would be best if I referred you to another therapist."
The words land wrong. Like they don't quite make sense.
"I'm sorry—what?"
He holds my gaze now, steady. "I don't think I'm the right person to keep working with you."
My chest tightens. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," he says immediately. "This isn't about you."
"Then what is it about?"
He exhales slowly. "It's about me and the way the lines have started to blur."
My stomach drops.
"The kiss," I say quietly.
He nods once. "That shouldn't have happened."
"It wasn't just you," I say. "I didn't stop it either."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?" I ask, softer now. Not sharp. Just... confused.
He studies me for a moment. "You deserve someone who can give you a completely objective space. Someone who isn't distracted by... other things."
I swallow. "We can just move past it."
He doesn't respond.
"I mean it," I continue. "It was one moment. We were both caught in the moment. It doesn't have to change everything."
His eyes search my face, like he's trying to see whether I really believe that.
"It already has," he says quietly.
The room feels smaller suddenly.
"You'd really rather to not work with me anymore?" I ask.
"That's not what I'm saying."
"It kind of is."
He shakes his head slightly. "I'm saying I don't think I can give you what you need in the way I'm supposed to."
The words sting more than I expect.
"You're the only person I talk to," I admit. "The only one I feel even remotely honest with."
Something flickers in his expression.
"And you want to take that away because of one kiss?" I ask.
Silence stretches between us.
Grant's jaw tightens slightly. "Naomi, I look forward to your sessions more than I should. There's time when I catch myself wondering about things that have nothing to do with your treatment. I don't feel as neutral anymore as I'm supposed to."
The honesty knocks the air out of my lungs.
"But that doesn't mean you have to drop me," I say, softer now. "We can just... be more careful."
He doesn't answer.
"Please don't send me to someone else," I add, almost without meaning to.
The words hang there.
Vulnerable. Bare.
Grant's expression shifts—something deeper, more conflicted.
"You're married," he says quietly.
I nod. "I know."
"And I'm supposed to be your therapist."
"I know that too."
Neither of us moves.
The space between us suddenly feels too small for all the things sitting in it.
I stand awkwardly in the space between his couch and the wall, more out of nervous energy than intention. "If this is about professionalism, then fine. We can just keep it professional. We already were before."
Grant stands too.
Now we're facing each other. Only a few feet apart.
My heart starts beating faster.
"Nothing has to change," I say, but my voice comes out softer than I expect.
His eyes drop—just for a second—to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
The air feels heavier now. Thicker.
I become painfully aware of how close he's gotten to where I'm standing. The faint warmth coming off his body. The way neither of us is stepping back.
I look down, breaking the eye contact.
"Maybe I should just go," I murmur.
I take a small step back.
Before I can take another, his hand lifts.
His hand finds the side of my neck—warm, steady, fingers splayed just beneath my jaw. The weight of his touch sends a pulse racing down my spine.
My heart's a hammer in my ribcage, wild and frantic, and I know—know—that if I move, I'll fall into him completely.
Then he kisses me.
Just a soft peck. A test. A breath of contact that barely brushes my lips.
But it wrecks me.
He pulls back half an inch, eyes searching mine, like he's waiting for a no.
I don't give him one.
So he leans in again.
The second kiss is longer. Still soft, still gentle, but this time his mouth lingers—like he's memorizing the shape of mine, the way I taste, the way I feel when I exhale into him. His thumb strokes slowly up toward my cheek, grounding me, coaxing me.
When he kisses me a third time, it's different.
No more testing.
No more waiting.
His mouth opens against mine, tongue slipping in with a quiet, restrained hunger that makes my knees go weak. I feel him exhale through his nose—tight, strained—and then his other hand is at my waist, pulling me closer, guiding me into him like he needs this as badly as I do.
The kiss deepens, heat blooming in my chest. My hands move without thinking, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath. His skin is hot. Smooth. My palms glide upward, mapping the rigid lines of his torso, the cut of his abs, the dip between his ribs.
He groans into my mouth. Not loud. Not showy.
But wrecked.
He doesn't stop kissing me. Doesn't even slow down.
But his hand shifts, fingers wrapping around my wrist as I explore him. He gently stills me—not to pull away, not to stop—but to look at me. His eyes are dark. Blown wide with something feral, something fragile.
He lets out a shaky breath. "Naomi..."
The way he says my name, like it's half a prayer, half a warning—I swear I feel it everywhere.
And then, without breaking the kiss, he starts backing me up.
Step by step.
His mouth claims mine over and over, deeper now, tongue tangling with mine in slow, hungry strokes that leave me gasping against him. Each step presses us tighter together, the tension between us sharpening, rising.
When my back hits the wall, I don't flinch.
I want to be there.
Pinned.
His hand flattens against the wall beside my head, the other still gripping my wrist, but when he feels me relax into him, surrendering to the moment, he lets go. Both of his hands slide down my sides in one unbroken motion, curling around the backs of my thighs.
Then—he lifts me.
A small gasp tears from my lips as I'm pulled up and off the ground, his hands anchoring me with startling ease. My legs wrap around his waist like it's instinct—like I was made to fit there. The hardness of him presses flush against me, and the sensation sends heat spiraling through my core.
We're still kissing. Still devouring each other.
His mouth doesn't leave mine, not for a second.
His body presses me into the wall, hips locking between my thighs, and the way we move—frantic, needy, desperate—there's no mistaking what this is.
What this is turning into.
My hands are in his hair now, pulling, dragging, keeping him close as his tongue moves deeper, more possessive. His teeth scrape gently across my bottom lip, and I let out a soft, broken moan that he drinks down like it's everything he's ever wanted.
I'm melting.
Drowning.
And I don't care.
The only sounds in the room are breath and lips and heat and the sound of us coming completely undone in each other's arms.
There's no room for logic anymore.
No lines. No rules. No outside world.
Just his mouth on mine.
His body against mine.
The rhythm of two people crashing into something inevitable.