Page 25

When someone pounds on your door at midnight, it’s either death or desire—and Chelsea looks like both.

She’s soaked from the rain I didn’t know was falling, hair plastered to her face, makeup running.

Still wearing work clothes like she came straight from the office, or maybe from drowning her decision in wine.

Her eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the controlled Dr. Clark who was supposed to fix me.

“You can’t be here,” I say, but I’m already stepping aside to let her in.

“I know.” She pushes past me, dripping on my hardwood floors. “I know I can’t be here. I know this is wrong. I know everything that’s at stake.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m apparently really fucking stupid when it comes to you.”

The profanity from her perfect mouth hits like a shot. She’s pacing now, leaving wet footprints, running her hands through destroyed hair.

“Chelsea—”

“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.

I pull back to look at her, both of us wrecked and wanting. “Feel it. For once in your controlled life, just feel it.”

Something breaks in her expression. She pulls me back down, and this time the kiss is different—desperate, yes, but also sad. Like goodbye.

We don’t make it to the bedroom. Can barely make it out of our remaining clothes. When I push into her right here against my kitchen wall, we both freeze, overwhelmed by the rightness of it. The completeness.

“Reed,” she breathes, and my name sounds like breaking.

“I know.” I press my forehead to hers. “I know.”

We move together frantically, desperately, like we can fuck away all the reasons this is impossible. Her nails rake down my back. My hands will leave bruises on her hips. We’re marking each other, claiming what we can’t keep.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” I demand, driving deeper. “Tell me this means nothing.”

“I can’t.” Tears stream down her face. “I can’t lie anymore.”

“Then don’t leave.”

“I have to.”

“Chelsea—”

“Please.” She pulls me closer, legs tightening. “Please just—don’t make this harder.”

But I can’t help it. Can’t stop the words that pour out between thrusts, between kisses, between heartbeats.

“You’re mine. You’ve been mine since Vegas. This thing between us—”

“Will destroy us both.” She’s close, I can feel it. “We both know it.”

“Maybe destruction is better than this. Better than pretending.”

She comes with a sob that sounds like grief, and I follow her over. We stay pressed together, shaking, the kitchen tile cold against our fevered skin.

Reality creeps in with our cooling sweat. She pushes at my chest gently, and I step back, watching her rebuild her walls with her clothes.

“This was goodbye,” she says quietly, not meeting my eyes.

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“Yes, it does.” She finds her blazer, slips it on over bare skin because her shirt is somewhere, destroyed. “Your new therapist will contact you about scheduling.”

“Chelsea—”

“Don’t.” She finally looks at me, and her eyes are empty. “Don’t make this mean more than it was. Just... let me go.”

“I did that once. In Vegas. Look where it got us.”

“It got me a career. A life. Stability.”

“It got you Jake. Schedules. A father who controls you.”

“At least those things don’t require me to choose between my heart and my future.”

“Your heart?” I step toward her, but she backs away. “Is that what I am?”

“You’re a complication I can’t afford.” She grabs her purse, heads for the door. “Take care of yourself, Reed. Try not to punch anyone else.”

“Chelsea, wait—”

But she’s gone. Again. Always leaving, always running, always choosing safety over us.

I stand in my destroyed kitchen, surrounded by knocked-over furniture and the ghost of her perfume. The counter where I lifted her. The wall where we fell apart. Evidence of our collision everywhere but already fading.

My phone buzzes. Weston.

Weston: You okay? Heard shouting.

Right. Thin walls. Nosy teammates.

Me: Fine.

Weston: Need company?

Me: Need to be alone.

I turn off my phone and survey the damage. Not just the furniture—that’s fixable. But the damage to my chest, the hollow ache where she carved out a space and then abandoned it.

Twice now. Twice she’s walked away after breaking me apart.

This time feels final. The transfer paperwork. Her father’s ultimatum. The way she said goodbye like she meant it.

I should feel angry. Should want to punch something, someone, anything to make this external pain match the internal. But all I feel is empty. Like she took the fire with her when she left, and now I’m just ashes.

I right the furniture, clean up the evidence of our destruction. But I can’t clean the taste of her from my mouth or the feel of her from my skin. Can’t erase the sound of her saying my name like it hurt.

In the shower, I find scratches down my back, bruises forming on my hips. Battle scars from our last war. Proof that for a few desperate minutes, we stopped pretending.

But she was right about one thing—this thing between us will destroy us both.

The question is whether we were anything worth saving in the first place.