Page 89 of Wistful Whispers
“I know.” He meets my eyes, and the hurt in them punches through me. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it matters to any of them. Not in this competitive world. People are scared. Caldwell’s got power. Influence. They’re protecting themselves.”
I reach for his hand and thread my fingers through his.
“I’m with you,” I say softly.
I mean it.
Deep down, though, selfish, rotten fear coils tight in my stomach. If things get worse for Seamus—if he has to leave the program, the city, this life—what would it mean for us?
He’s younger. Brilliant. Gorgeous. Talented.
His whole future is out in front of him and I don’t want to be the reason he walks away from his dream. What if our bubble was temporary? A warm, safe, fragile space meant to be limited. What if it can’t possibly hold up now the outside world has seeped back in?
“You’ve gone quiet.” He pulls me closer.
“I’m spacing out,” I lie, squeezing his hand tighter. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever comes next.”
Deep down, I wonder about our timing. If it will find a way to pull us apart.
His arms wind around me tighter, pulling me in until there’s no space left between us. We stay pressed together for a while, our bodies heavy, the apartment hushed but humming with quiet tension. Not necessarily bad. The kind when you’re both dealing with internal conflicts you’re not ready to admit out loud.
Eventually, I coax him off the couch. He follows me into the bedroom, slow and reluctant, like his bones are heavier tonight. He sits on the edge of the bed while I get undressed. When I turn back, he’s already peeled off his scrub pants and is sitting in his boxers, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.
“You want tea?” I move toward him. “Or whiskey?”
His eyes flick up, and there’s a glint of mischief in them, just for a second. “Neither. Get your ass in bed.”
“You get in, this is my side.” I laugh and tug back the sheets.
He does. Quietly. Easily. Like gravity’s stronger between us than anywhere else.
We lie there in the dark, my head on his chest, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of my shoulder. There’s nothing sexual about it. Nothing demanding. Just skin and breath and an unspoken promise we’re here for each other. Even when life is hard.
At least I hope so.
“I love you.” I kiss his chest.
He exhales like I’ve given him a gift. “I love you so much, Marcella.”
We fall asleep wrapped in each other. Two people doing the best we can.
For tonight, it’s enough.
twenty-eight
Seamus
A Few Weeks Later
Heregoesnothing.
I’m about to pitch a study on female sexual response to one of the most respected doctors in the program—while half the hospital still thinks I’m conducting my own trials in the stairwells.
Smart.
Real smart.
I navigate through the maze of tables, my eyes scanning for Dr. Roberta Madison, one of my supervisors during my OBGYN rotation a couple years ago. Spotting her near the window, I make my way over.
