40. Oxytocin
Oxytocin
We climb back onto the bike. This time there’s no hesitation, no awkwardness.
The moment my arms wrap around him, it feels natural.
My body fits against his like it’s meant to be there.
When the engine roars to life, I can feel it vibrate through both of us.
The ride back is a blur of dark trees and streaked headlights, the wind colder now.
I hold him tighter than before, not because I’m scared but because I can’t seem to stop myself.
Every time he leans into a turn, I follow without thinking, drawn closer until I’m not sure where the motion ends and he begins.
When we finally slow, it’s to the sight of a narrow gravel drive disappearing into trees.
At the end of it, half hidden by shadows and ivy, is a small cabin.
He kills the engine and steadies the bike, then steps off.
For the brief moment I’m still seated, the loss of contact hits like a chill.
I swing my leg over and stand, hugging my arms against the breeze.
He moves to the side of the cabin, unlocking a low wooden door.
The hinges creak as he lifts it open, revealing a small garage space.
“Hang on,” he says, rolling the bike inside with practiced ease.
The distance feels wrong. I tell myself it’s just adrenaline, just the drop after the rush.
But it feels like a sign, a warning—of how badly I might already want something I don’t fully understand, and how strong that craving could become if I let it.
He comes back around to where I’m standing and gestures toward the cabin with a grin that’s equal parts pride and mischief.
“So? What do you think?”
The porch light flickers on, warm against the dark.
There’s a softness to the place, weathered wood, ivy curling up the posts, the faint glow through the curtains.
He presents it like a prize, but it feels like something else entirely.
I look at him, at the way his hair falls across his face and his eyes catch the light, and I feel my heart whisper the truth I’ve been trying to ignore.
He might have already won the whole thing.
One kiss, one ride, one date and I’m lost.
He nods, unlocks the door, flicks on a light. The inside smells like woodsmoke and the faint sweetness of varnish. There’s a turntable, shelves of vinyl, a piano half-hidden beneath a canvas cloth. Everything about it feels like him, thoughtful, private, subtly haunted.
He heats up some mandu he brought, apparently his mother insisted he take with him and finds a bottle of absurdly expensive wine a sponsor sent to the band tucked in his long-neglected pantry.
“The shirts were awful,” he says, uncorking it, “but the wine’s worth the trauma.”
We eat on the porch. The lake below us is dark glass, the only light spilling from the cabin window.
“This is delicious,” I say, taking another bite of his mother’s cooking. “Kind of like pierogi, but better because I didn’t have to spend hours making it.”
He smiles. “She said, ‘musicians and doctors forget to eat.’”
Suddenly, we both freeze, the admission an accidental one.
“You told your parents about me?” I raise an eyebrow while he shoves another bite into his mouth to avoid talking. I don’t look away, just watch him chew, swallow, then try to hide behind a sip of wine.
“My father knew I’d punched Rithy for a reason,” he finally mutters. “He raised me, after all. There was no hiding it. There, satisfied?”
I smirk. “Yes.”
We both laugh. He talks easily after that, music theory, stage lighting disasters, until somehow we end up in art.
“Caravaggio,” he says between sips of wine, “painted holiness like it was an accident. Dirt on the saints, blood in the shadows. Violence and grace, side by side.”
I tilt my head. “You’d like Artemisia Gentileschi then. My art teacher in college absolutely adored her, preached about her like a prophet. It always struck me how she made vengeance look divine.”
His eyes flick toward me, amused. “Of course you’d choose her.”
“You wouldn’t? Not violent enough for you?”
“Maybe.” He pauses at the accusation. “Or maybe I just prefer my saints conflicted.”
“I’m Catholic,” I say. “We know all saints are conflicted.”
We laugh softly. The conversation drifts to poets, films, the strange symmetry of anatomy and melody. He mumbles something in Greek; I catch half of it, the word for light, another for returning. He translates when I ask.
“It’s about Eurydice,” he says. “How love makes ghosts of the living before it ever resurrects the dead.”
“Of course you’d pick something tragic and Greek,” I tease.
He grins faintly. “It’s kind of my whole thing, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, I noticed,” I say. “Beautifully depressing.”
“It’s a curse,” he says, smiling. “All the best lines are.”
The porch goes silent except the sound of crickets and the faint lap of water against stone. He looks out over the lake for a long time before speaking again.
“I’m talking too much,” he says finally. “Veering dangerously close to pretentious twat territory, trying to keep my brain busy so it doesn’t wander where it wants.”
“Where’s that?” I ask, even though I already know. Something wicked in me wants to hear him say it.
He exhales a low laugh. “To the ways I’m thinking about you… that I probably shouldn’t be.”
My pulse jumps. I turn my head, meet his eyes. “You could talk less,” I murmur.
His mouth curves, slow, dangerous. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is teasing,” I say.
For a moment, no one breathes. The night itself seems to wait. Then he leans forward just enough that his voice barely carries.
“I never tease, I make delayed promises,” he whispers.
He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, careful and sure.
I meet him, lean into it, both of us testing.
He’s trying to see if I mean it, if the barriers Haima tried to build are still there.
I just sit in it, his touch, his proximity, until it feels like he’ll crack and kiss me.
But then he sits back, smiling faintly at the sky.
“Sky’s full of stars and not one is taking it well that I’ve got the better view.”
I groan and shove his arm lightly. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” His voice dips, velvet and dangerous. “The way I look at you? Notice things? Tell you the things you want to hear but don't dare ask for?”
“Yes,” I say immediately, staring straight ahead.
He huffs a soft laugh. “Fine. Let me try again.” He tilts his head, studying me with far too much amusement. “I’m insanely jealous of my bike.”
My brain short-circuits. The implication hits and I go scarlet.
“Rafe!” I smack his arm and he loses it, laughing like he knew exactly how fast he could ignite me. Which, apparently, is very. My whole body burns, betraying me with every degree of heat. I try to calm myself down but it just gets worse.
He dips his head, eyes dragging over my face, savoring the carnage. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.” I am, violently.
He smiles like he can read every thought I’ve ever failed to hide. “You can pretend all you want, but you heard me and I stand by it.”
“I heard you,” I manage, “and I’m ignoring you.”
“No,” he says, soft and sure, “you’re feeling it.”
“Rafe,” I mutter, fighting a smile that refuses to die, “I mean it. Stop.”
He taps his knuckle lightly against my knee, and I can feel him winding up. He’s ready to really go for it, the line that’ll finish me. So I beat him to it. I turn, fully. Knees brushing, face angled toward him. I look him dead in the eyes.
“Your dimple comes out when you think you’ve won.”
He blinks. “What dimple?”
“That one.” I point to it, the faint crease breaking through his cheek. “I notice every time it happens.”
He goes absolutely still, caught mid-breath.
“Your eyes…” I tilt my head, studying him the way I’d study a fundus photo. “Those gold flecks were the first thing I noticed when you signed my CD. Sixteen years old, hovering like an idiot, and there they were.”
He swallows, no comeback anywhere in sight.
“They were the same in my exam room,” I add softly. “Same warmth. Same… softness you pretend isn’t there.”
A stunned, betrayed little inhale leaves him.
I lean back, victorious. “You were saying something?”
“What—what, no?” he mutters, flustered beyond repair.
I grin, slow and satisfied. “Who’s blushing now, Ashton?”
He lifts a hand to his cheek like he can physically catch the heat spreading there.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
I laugh, loud, helpless and he drops his face into his hands, shaking his head.
“Unfair,” he groans through his fingers. “That was unfair.”
I nudge his shoulder. “You started it.”
He peeks out, completely undone. “Do it again.”
“Not a chance.”
He groans and sinks back into the chair, but he’s smiling, brighter than the porch light. I can see it, that little chest rise, the breath he can’t quite get under control. Now he’s the one trying to recover and I don’t even pretend I’m not pleased about it.
Inside, the cabin feels smaller with the door closed, the silence almost too complete. He finds another bottle tucked away, soju this time and lifts it triumphantly like a small treasure.
“Didn’t think I still had this,” he says. “Guess I’m more prepared for emergencies than I thought.”
“Emergency being what?” I ask, watching him rummage for shot glasses.
“Existential dread, artistic crisis, general insomnia.” He grins. “You?”
“Endless charting,” I say. “And people who think Google is a medical degree.” I turn towards him, “We’re going to end up alcoholics at this rate,” I say.
He leans against the counter, eyes glinting. “Maybe, at least we'll be—is it a depressant? Or a stimulant? I forget.”
“Depressant,” I answer automatically. “Shocking that I know more about drugs than you do.”
He laughs, low and easy. “You’re a doctor. Comes with the territory.”
“And you’re a musician. Aren’t drugs part of the job description?”
I curl into the couch, watching him bring over the bottle and two shot glasses. He hands me one; our fingers brush and linger a heartbeat too long before either of us lets go.
He sits beside me, knocks back his soju, then leans into the cushions, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, the other settling lightly around my shoulders.
The warmth of him is instant, magnetic. Without thinking, inhibitions lowered from the wine, I lean in, my head finding the hollow of his collarbone, his chest solid beneath me.
“For me?” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “These days, it's only the natural kind. Adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin. What’s the other one, oxytocin?” He says it like a secret, every syllable unveiled.
I tilt my head, smiling up at him. “I hear you can get those on repeat prescriptions.”
He looks down at me, the corner of his mouth curving. “Or…” his voice softens to a whisper “…there’s a dose right here.”
The distance between us evaporates when his lips find mine, slow, gentle, tasting of soju and something warmer.
The kiss deepens but never rushes, careful in its hunger, mindful in its rhythm.
My fingers trace the line of his collar, then slide into his hair, down the nape of his neck.
His hand moves against my back, firm and certain, guiding me closer.
The world blurs into nothing but breath and heat. His heartbeat jumps beneath my fingertips, steady and wild at once, and when he can't hold back a low groan, the sound of it almost drowns out the rain beginning against the roof.
When he finally pulls back, just enough for air, his voice is rough against my mouth. “Do you think that was twenty seconds? For the oxytocin?”
I shake my head, breathless. “You’re assuming I can think right now. Guess we should keep going just to be sure.”
He exhales a small laugh that vibrates through his chest and into mine.
One hand stays tangled in my hair, the other resting low at my back, keeping me anchored.
Outside, the rain thickens. Inside the cabin, it’s just the two of us, his heat, the taste of him, until the rest of the world disappears.