Chapter 5
The Calm
Robyn
The resident lounge smells of burned, cheap coffee and recycled air. The whir of the vending machine and the flickering lights above are enough to give you a headache.
Julian drops onto the weathered leather couch, and it hisses under him as he shifts to lie down to rest his feet on the arm rest. Neurosurgery is where he’s hoping to land.
A field that eats its young and spits out gods.
With the lighting, the bags under his eyes are as purple as bruises.
I’m sure I don’t look much better. He drops his forearm on top of his forehead, black locks curl around his face.
You would think he’s dead if it wasn’t for the smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Tell me you’re not offering to extend your shift,” he says, voice rough from sleep deprivation.
“Please. I’ve hit my quota for self-inflicted misery this week.” After losing yet another hair tie during my eighteen-hour shift, I search my cubby for one, then tug my hair into a low ponytail and shove my phone into my bag. “I’m heading to Nate’s.”
“Ah, the boyfriend.” He stretches, shirt riding up enough to show a strip of skin, and sits with his elbows on his knees. Fixing me with a challenging stare—gray threaded with glacial blue—he asks, “How’s nine-to-five life treating him?”
I snort. “He’s an architect, Kells. Deadlines, budgets. He pulls his own kind of overworked shifts.”
“Sure thing.” He pats his cheeks. “I bet ya he does those in sweatpants from his bed.”
I grin despite myself. Julian has the kind of charm that sneaks in sideways, and the tired, self-deprecating humor that makes never-ending shifts survivable.
“Maybe that’s one of the things I like about him,” I say, closing my locker, grinning. “I get to catch up on sleep, in his bed, while he’s deep in his spreadsheets.”
A deep hum leaves his lips, and I know I’ve walked right into one of his traps. Shoot.
Mischief sparks in the ocean tones of his stare. “Dr. Sunshine, if he prefers being deep in his spreadsheets to being deep in you—well, that sounds like your relationship has a problem.”
I glance upward, exasperated. “You couldn’t pass that up, could you?”
He smirks and shakes his head.
“You wouldn’t recognize a grown-up relationship even if it hit you in the face,” I say. “It’s not a problem. It’s respecting each other’s priorities.”
“Sure, you tell yourself that.”
He pushes up from the couch and walks over, then braces one arm against the cubby above me. Kells towers over me—broad-shouldered, lean, and the faint stubble along his jaw giving his exhaustion a sharper edge. The streaks of azure in his iris grow wider, infused by caffeine and defiance.
“But I know I sleep much better after an orgasm. Whoever I’m with definitely gets two or three, and they sleep like a fucking baby.”
“Baby and orgasm in the same sentence, Kells?” I tease, cocking a hip against the shelf. “Not sexy.”
He smells of soap and iodine, with a hint of cologne from hours ago.
Shoulders slumped, he rubs the back of his neck.
“Not everyone’s as lucky as you to have someone who gets the grueling hours of your schedule.
You get to run back to CT scans and charts in less than five months, I have years of this. And I have needs, you know?”
I nudge his arm with my elbow, smirking. “Bullshit. You just don’t want a relationship that much.”
He laughs, the sound low and worn thin. “So sue me.” He runs a hand over his face, then nods toward the vending machines. “You sure you don’t want to grab food before you go? I could actually eat something that wasn’t wrapped in plastic.”
I shake my head. “Nate’s cooking. Lasagna and a foot massage.”
Julian snorts. “Romantic. Hopefully, the lasagna comes first.”
“Either way, it’s not hospital food.”
He presses a hand to his chest in mock offense.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I nod toward the door. “Go home, Kells. Shower. Sleep. We’re due here Friday morning for another long one.”
He huffs out a sighing laugh. “It fucking blows they switched us. We haven’t had a weekend off in weeks.”
“Get over it.” I poke him between his ribs as I pass. “Fewer orgasms, more suturing.”
He gives me a lazy salute, and that same crooked grin returns. “Yes, ma’am.”
Before I push out the door, I catch his gaze cast downward, with slumped shoulders.
I wish I could grab a bite with him, keep him company for a bit.
I know what our schedule’s doing to him.
Nate gets it, but I’ve noticed the flicker of annoyance.
The frustration of yet another weekend without each other.
It’s getting to him, so when my phone buzzes with Nate’s text, I promise I’ll do better by Julian another day.
“Night, Dr. Keller,” I say, smiling.
A shared understanding passes between us. We’ve pushed each other to keep at it since we both got a C- on our first pathology assignment during our first year in med school.
“It’s Kells for you, Dr. Sunshine.” His voice is coated with exhaustion but still warm.
On the way to Nate’s, my shoulders loosen while thinking about seeing him. His barely veiled disappointment flashes in my mind, which I’m about to see again when I cancel yet another Friday date.
I close the door to Nate’s apartment, energy surging through me as the tension from the day slips off my shoulders.
His place smells of garlic and tomato. Kitchen utensils clatter beyond the little entry way to the left.
The kitchen’s behind the long wall, connected to both the dining room and living room, in an almost open concept.
There’s a column right in the middle between the two areas, “marking the bones of the house,” as Nate says.
I’m more taken by him in a gray undershirt and black and white pants, stirring something in a saucepan, with a faint smudge of sauce on his cheek, than I would be by columns and exposed beams. Just seeing him makes me want to laugh and collapse into him at the same time.
“Hey,” I murmur, dropping my bag.
He gazes up and grins. “Come over here, sweet thing. I’m about to assemble the lasagna, and then it’ll just need about forty minutes in the oven.”
I slip off my shoes and go to him. He’s got a large Pyrex pan on the island across from the stove, with shredded cheese on one side and oven-ready noodles on the other.
“I love this domestic side of you. Mad cooking skills and all.”
He tugs me in for a hug, and I loop my arms around his waist, then every alarm, the beeping monitors, and the endless rounds disappear. With his head tilted, his lips find mine, and his tongue flicks against mine in a slow claiming. His hands fall to the curve of my lower back.
Something rattles, but Nate gives me three more pecks before checking what got knocked over. His deep-chestnut hair brushes my cheek, and it reminds me of rubbing against velvet. His warmth seeps into me even through the clothing—he runs warmer than most people.
“Sorry,” he says, staring at the saucy mess and wooden spoon on the tiled floor. “Got a little carried away.” He averts his gaze to me, and his eyes catch the light. His irises are a unique shade of amber, sometimes closer to brown, sometimes redder. His focus lingers on me before stepping away.
“Can you please turn the stove off?”
I nod but watch him grab paper towels then kneel to clean up the mess. His pants hang low on his hips, and the thin cotton tank does nothing to hide his muscular shoulders. He’s not a gym junkie, but he runs, rows, and bikes. He needs to move, and I couldn’t relate less, but we make it work.
A half smirk takes over his face. “Robyn, stop ogling.” His expression’s a mix of boyish charm and quiet hunger.
Begrudgingly, I turn off the stove and set the saucepan on the cutting board on the kitchen island.
Then I grab a large spoon and assemble the lasagna into the pan.
He slides his arms around my waist, and he takes the ladle from me and pours.
I set the noodles on top, and we both cheese it up until the Pyrex is filled to the brim with beefy, saucy goodness.
My stomach rumbles against Nate’s forearm.
“Soon, sweets, soon.”
He pats my butt, tips his chin toward the couch, then slides the pan into the oven. Moving with ease, he opens a bottle of red Cabernet and pours two generous glasses, its scent unfurling into the air.
Our thighs touch when he joins me on the couch. When I lift the glass, dark fruit and oak envelop me before the first sip even grazes my lips.
Turning to face him, I ask, “How was your day?” I scoot even closer to him. “Did you have a good lunch?”
Reluctance flickers across his face, small and quick, but it vanished so seamlessly, I must have imagined it.
“Do you want to talk about blueprints or safety parameters …” The words fade as his fingers trace the inside of my forearm, light and teasing, hairs bristling in the wake of his touch.
The corner of my mouth tilts. “Of course, you care about it.”
He squeezes my elbow lightly, the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “How was your day?” he asks, tugging lightly on my ankle until my legs rest across his lap, then his fingers find the back of my calf, rubbing soothing circles.
“Honestly? It’s been a bitch.” I take a sip, and when I lick my lips, his tongue darts out. “Remember what I told you about the head of neuro?”
“Steinberg, right?”
I smile into my glass. “Yeah. She’s still fuming over that botched discharge.”
He tilts his head, brow lifting. “I mean, discharging a guy who’s forgotten a decade of his life. Just hours after he got injured. With some random woman. Yikes.”
“Exactly—” I sigh. My shoulders loosen some more because I love that he remembers. “Now we’re all under insane scrutiny.”