Page 22 of Dr. Fellow

She’s quiet for a moment, then shakes her head. “God, you ortho bros are so competitive.”

When I don’t say anything, she lets out a resigned sigh and adds, “Fine. You can start by letting me borrow some clothes so that I don’t have to walk home naked. I only have my dirty scrubs with me because I wasn’t thinking when I came over. It was a long day.”

“I can do that. Not sure I have anything that’ll fit you, though.”

Morgan’s eyes twinkle with amusement as she smirks deviously. “We’ll make it fit.”

Turning away, I suppress a matching smile and head to my dresser. I dig through the drawers until I find a soft T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that I wore in high school but never got rid of.

“Here,” I offer, handing her the clothes. “Hopefully these work. Bathroom’s all yours. Just don’t take too long, or I’ll have to check on you again.”

She rolls her eyes with a practiced defiance that makes my blood stir. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Once she disappears, I toss on a fresh pair of black sweats and a gray hoodie before making my way to the kitchen. I clearly don’t know shit about what women want, but I do know that it’s cold as fuck outside and she probably needs something to warm her up on her way home.

Halfway through making her a fresh cup of coffee, I realize that it’s after ten in the evening and she’ll never sleep if I offer this to her now. Dumping the muddy liquid down the drain, I try to come up with an alternative plan.

I scour the cabinets and eventually find a gift bag of assorted teas that the hospital gave the residents for a morale-building initiative last Christmas. I have about as much understanding of tea as a newborn baby, but I choose the peppermint option because it seems like it would be soothing. Since there are two bags of each, I decide to make myself one as well.

As I’m pouring the hot water into ceramic mugs, I frown. I really should give her a travel container so she doesn’t feel obligated to stay, but something stops me—I don’t want her to leave. For the first time since I moved back in, I haven’t completely loathed being in this house.

“Whatcha doing?”

I turn, trying my hardest not to react to the sight of Morgan in my clothes. But that’s really goddamn challenging when they look perfect on her. Even from a distance, I can see the way her nipples pebble beneath the thin cotton of my oversized Braves T-shirt.

My balls start to tingle with obscene desire, and I cough to distract myself. “You like peppermint tea?”

Her thin brows furrow as she pads closer, her feet practically silent on the worn hardwoods. “Do you like blow jobs?”

“Uh—” I stammer, caught off guard.

She shrugs and reaches for the mug I put on the counter.“Thought we were asking each other stupid questions.”

For a moment all I can do is stare at her. How can she go from being so vulnerable, to completely closed off at the drop of a hat? It’s not like I expect her to cry to me again, but I guess I just didn’t think she would immediately revert back to her normal, combative self.

“Alright,” I concede, watching as the steam from the tea frames her face in a hazy mist. “I take it that’s a yes to the tea, then?”

“I take it that’s a yes to the blow jobs, then?” she echos, her tone full of playful mockery.

Jesus—is anything easy with this woman?

I lean back, resting my weight against the kitchen cabinets. “Who doesn’t like a blow job?”

Morgan lowers her mug, staring at me as she wets her lips. I doubt that she means the gesture seductively, but it instantly makes me hard as a rock. “Most women don’t.”

I desperately want to ask if she’s one of those women, to banter like we usually do, but I hold myself back. I need to make sure she’s okay first.

“Want to talk about what happened tonight?”

Her tongue prods her cheek like she’s considering my offer. Letting out a prolonged exhale, she says, “Not particularly.”

Even though I was hoping for a different response, I don’t push her.

“Sit with me.” The words come out more like a command than an offer, but I don’t regret that—I can’t let her go yet.

Morgan dips her chin in acknowledgment, and I gesture toward the small wooden table a few feet away.

“Sorry about the papers,” I say, my tone softening. “I’ve been using this area to work.”

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