Page 63 of Off-Limits as Puck

“I’m transferring you to another therapist.” The words come out in a rush. “My father knows. Made it clear—you or my career. So congratulations, you win. I’m choosing my career.”

“I win?” I laugh, but it’s razor-sharp. “What exactly do I win? Losing the only person who sees me as more than fists and penalties? Getting shuttled to another shrink who’ll read my file and see a lost cause?”

“You’ll be fine. Dr. Morse is excellent—”

“I don’t want Dr. Morse. I want—” I stop myself, but we both know how that sentence ends.

“What? What do you want, Reed?” She whirls on me, eyes blazing. “Tell me what you want so I can explain why it’s impossible.”

“You. I want you. I’ve wanted you since Vegas, through every session, every text, every fucking moment you’ve been pretending we’re doctor and patient instead of—”

“Instead of what? What are we?”

“I don’t know!” The words explode out. “I don’t know what we are because you keep running. Vegas, the equipment shed, every time we get close to something real, you bolt.”

“Because it’s not real! This thing between us is just chemistry. Hormones. Bad decisions looking for a place to happen.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s bullshit and you know it. You’re not here at midnight, looking like you’ve been crying, because of hormones.”

“I haven’t been crying.”

“Right.” I move closer, and she backs up until she hits the wall. “You’ve been crying because walking away from this is killing you. Just like it’s killing me.”

“Don’t—”

“Don’t what? Don’t call you a coward? Don’t point out that you’re choosing daddy’s approval over something real?”

“Fuck you.” She shoves at my chest, but I don’t budge. “You don’t know what I’m choosing. You don’t know what he said, what he threatened—”

“I know you’re scared. Always so fucking scared of feeling anything you can’t control.”

“And you’re so brave? Mister punch-first-think-later? At least I’m not destroying everything I touch.”

“No, you just destroy things by leaving them.”

She slaps me. Hard. The crack echoes in my apartment, and we both freeze, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t—”

I kiss her.

It’s not gentle. It’s pent-up frustration and want crashing together, all tongue and desperation. She makes a sound—protest or plea—then her hands are in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.

We stumble backward, knocking into furniture, tearing at clothes. Her blazer hits the floor. My shirt follows. Every barrier between us feels like an insult we’re desperate to correct.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she gasps as I lift her onto the kitchen counter.

“Be quiet.”

“I’m still transferring you.”

“I said don’t talk.”

I kiss her again to stop the words, to stop the thinking, to stop everything but this. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I groan at the contact.

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