Chapter 8
Caroline Atkins?
I wake up to heat.
Not the usual blanket warmth or that heavy hospital exhaustion that clings to your bones even in sleep—but full-body, human furnace pressed against my back kind of heat. At first, it’s confusing. I’m warm, too warm, and why the fuck does my pillow feel like it has a pulse?
Then I feel it.
Solid chest, right against my spine. Legs tangled up with mine like they’re trying to fuse. One arm slung low, hand resting on my stomach like he owns it. And—oh great—a chin on top of my head.
And just to round out the hell of it:
There it is.
A hard dick.
Nudging.
My.
Ass.
Fantastic.
I stare straight ahead at the wall like maybe if I don’t move, this will stop existing. Like if I lay still enough, I’ll phase out of this dimension and into one where I’m not being accidentally dry-humped by an amnesiac with a soft spot for my pasta.
Okay. Okay, Carol. This is what you get when you decide to let a stray puppy with no memories, a tragic jawline, and more trauma than backstory into your bed. You play dumbass games, you win dick-in-the-back prizes.
To his credit, he’s out cold. Breathing slow, mouth probably open, completely unaware he’s spooning the life out of me with the grace of a space heater and the subtlety of a jackhammer.
I should wake him.
I should elbow him.
I should say something.
Instead, I lie there, very awake, very aware, and very much cursing my entire fucking life.
I inch away.
Slowly.
Like I’m defusing a goddamn bomb pressed against my back—and the bomb has a boner.
I move one shoulder, then the other. Ease out of the warm trap that is Crash’s body, inch by inch, praying to whatever gods exist in this fucked-up universe that he stays dead asleep. My legs untangle from his, the arm slides off my waist, and praise be, he lets me go with only a sleepy grumble.
I roll over, heart still hammering, and—yep. There he is.
Dead to the world.
And unfairly fucking hot.
Seriously. Why.
It should be illegal to look that good in borrowed clothes and someone else’s soap.
The shirt I gave him hangs off his chest like a soft, accidental strip tease.
His jaw’s clean now—no more sad beard—just sharp lines and a smooth chin that could cut glass.
His lashes are long enough to be rude, and of course he doesn’t snore.
Or drool. Or do anything remotely unattractive.
He’s just lying there like a goddamn Calvin Klein model who got in a fistfight with fate and somehow made it look fuckable.
And then there’s… yeah.
That.
What I felt? That wasn’t imagination.
There’s a lot going on down there.
He frowns a little in his sleep, shifting just enough to remind me of the cast on his arm. The damn thing’s bulky and awkward, and I watch as he tries to tuck it under his pillow like it isn’t made of fiberglass and hell. He winces, even in sleep.
Shit.
He’s probably not on any pain meds.
I didn’t even think of that last night, because I was too busy making sure he didn’t freeze to death or eat moldy tuna.
But now it’s clear—he’s got to be sore, stiff, and probably hurting more than he lets on.
Because of course he’s the type to suffer quietly and say “I’m fine” while dragging a broken limb across Manhattan like a wounded action hero.
I sigh and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
Sexy or not, if he starts grinding on me again in his sleep, I might not have the strength—or the decency—to keep playing Florence Fucking Nightingale.
I get up, stretch the kinks out of my neck, and leave Mr. Sleeping Pantydropper to his dreams.
He doesn’t move. Not even a twitch. The man could sleep through a fucking hurricane—and honestly, I kinda hope he stays that way until I’ve had at least one cup of coffee and some emotional distance from being spooned by Thor’s hotter, homeless cousin.
I pad into the kitchen, tie my hair up in a knot that says “I’m too tired for bullshit,” and start doing what I do best: fixing shit.
Breakfast. First thing. Nothing fancy—we’re not filming a goddamn cooking show—but I throw together scrambled eggs, toast, and enough butter to piss off the entire cardiology department.
I even find a sad little avocado in the fridge and slap that onto the toast like I’m some kind of domestic goddess.
Boom. Done. Nutritious, hot, edible. That’s the bar. We clear it.
Next: painkillers.
And look. I’m not technically allowed to have these.
But every nurse has a stash, alright? Don’t let the scrub smiles fool you—we hoard the good stuff like dragon gold.
Advil, Tylenol, the occasional leftover muscle relaxer from a very bad Tuesday.
And no, don’t ask where I keep them. You’ll never find it. I’m half nurse, half squirrel.
I pop a couple of ibuprofen into a little ceramic dish like we’re at a fucking bed and breakfast and set it on the counter next to his plate. Nurse instincts: activated.
While the eggs sizzle, I pull out my phone and shoot off a flurry of texts to some friends at other hospitals.
Me: You guys had anyone come in asking about a tall, hot guy with dark hair, grey eyes, and severe amnesia? Asking for... reasons.
Trina (Mount Sinai): Uhhhh Carol is this a professional inquiry or are you finally dating someone with a pulse?
Me: He showed up spooning me this morning, so let’s say both.
Trina: Jesus Christ. I’ll check the logs.
Me: Thanks. If he turns out to be married, I’m pushing him off the fire escape.
A few more messages go out, mostly to nurses I trust not to rat me out for… well, all of this. I describe him best I can, keep it vague but precise—height, build, eye color, concussion, brooding jawline of death. You know, the essentials.
And while the eggs finish and the toast pops, I realize something I probably shouldn’t admit out loud:
I kind of don’t want anyone to call back.
Not yet.
Not just yet.
Mr. Big Spoon decides to grace the world with his presence around ten.
Honestly? I expected more. The man’s been sleeping on benches and behind dumpsters for days—if it were me, I’d be dead to the world until someone physically sprayed me with a hose or waved bacon under my nose.
But nope. He stirs, groans low in his throat like a damn porn preview, and sits up, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand like a sleepy toddler who also happens to look like a fuckable cologne ad.
His hair is a mess—flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, and somehow still working for him.
Of course it is. Because apparently, everything works on him.
He blinks a few times, slow, head turning like he’s rebooting in real time.
His eyes land on the empty space beside him—my side—and then start scanning the apartment like he forgot where he was.
Finally, they land on me—standing by the stove, spatula in hand, coffee in the other, being a whole domestic fantasy I never asked for.
“Morning,” I say, raising my mug.
He blinks again. “Morning…” comes out gravelly, voice dipped in sleep and just unfair enough to make my knees think dangerous things.
He swings his legs off the bed, stands slowly, still half out of it, and stretches just enough for the shirt I gave him to lift and flash a line of abs that need to be put in a museum. “Did I sleep a lot?”
“Not really,” I say, flipping the eggs with a sizzle. “I was betting on noon. Maybe one. You’ve got street sleep debt to pay off and that shit accrues interest.”
He smirks, still rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I was too comfy.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, sliding his plate across the counter. “Try not to get used to it, Crash. Bed privileges come with rules.”
He walks over, eyes going to the food like he hasn’t eaten since the Reagan era. “What kind of rules?”
“Don’t spoon me without permission, don’t hump me in your sleep, and if you fart under the covers I’m suffocating you with a pillow.”
He laughs—really laughs—and it does weird things to my insides.
“Noted,” he says, sliding onto the stool.
I point to the little dish next to his plate. “Also: meds. For the arm. And maybe the general trauma.”
He glances at them, then at me. “How’d you even get these?”
“I plead the fifth,” I say, sipping my coffee. “Just eat before you pass out and I have to explain your corpse to the building super.”
He sips his coffee—black, no sugar, because apparently he likes his caffeine like he likes his identity: bitter and mysterious.
Then he pops the meds like a good boy and digs into the eggs, eyes lighting up a little, like maybe he forgot food could taste like anything other than wet cardboard and disappointment.
“Uh—” he starts, mouth half-full, “you got work today?”
I shake my head with a dramatic exhale and lean back against the counter like I’ve been blessed by the divine.
“Nope. Next shift is Monday. Thank the merciful, sleep-deprived Lord above. If I had to look at one more guy who thought he was dying because his toe tingled, I was gonna smother him with his own hospital gown.”
He snorts, chewing. “You’re so nurturing.”
“Only to the deserving,” I shoot back, sipping my coffee. “You’re lucky your face buys you some wiggle room.”
He raises a brow. “So I am hot.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I say, even though—yeah, he is, and it’s annoying as fuck.
I sit down across from him, cradling my mug in both hands. “I shot some texts out earlier,” I say, tone softening just a notch. “A few friends in other hospitals. Asked if anyone came in asking about a guy matching your description. Tall, broody, grey eyes, abs like a Greek tragedy.”
His chewing slows, and I see it—that flicker. Hope. It’s faint, but it’s there. That ache in his chest that maybe, maybe someone out there is missing him. Looking. Waiting.
He swallows. “Thanks,” he says, quieter this time.
I shrug. “Least I can do for a man who tried to dry hump me in his sleep.”
He chokes a little on the next bite. “Jesus.”
“Just keeping you humble, Crash.” I grin. “Eat your damn eggs.”
After a little while—post-egg annihilation and a refill of coffee—he sets his fork down, scratches the back of his neck like it’s a nervous tic, and says, “So, uh—what’s your plans?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean for today, or like, my five-year plan?”
He smirks, eyes flicking to his empty plate. “Let’s start with today.”
I sigh and stretch, my back cracking like popcorn. “Well, your clothes are done. They’re clean. Technically wearable again. But unless you plan to live out the rest of your mystery life in one hoodie and a pair of saggy sweatpants that smell like bus station trauma, we gotta get you more shit.”
He blinks. “Shit like...?”
“Essentials,” I say, grabbing my now-lukewarm coffee and draining it like a shot.
“A coat, some decent sneakers, a couple shirts that weren’t soaked in city filth, and at least one pair of pants that don’t look like they lost a fight with a raccoon. You need basics, Crash. Human clothes. Dignity, in textile form.”
“Right,” he says slowly. “So… shopping?”
“Thrifting,” I correct, standing and already rifling through my tiny kitchen junk drawer for the subway card.
“You think I’m blowing real money on a man who doesn’t know if he used to be a car thief or an accountant? Hell no. We’re going to the land of secondhand salvation. You’re getting $40 worth of fresh starts.”
He leans back, running a hand through that annoyingly perfect hair, smirking. “That sounds like a date.”
I pause, give him a deadpan look. “It’s not. It’s charity. And if you call it a date in public, I will ditch you in a pile of old blazers and make you fight your way out.”
He laughs again—easy, soft—and it tugs at something deep in my ribs I do not have time to process.
“Thrifting it is,” he says, pushing his chair back. “Lead the way, boss.”
God help me.
He’s charming when he’s fed.