Page 17

Rilee

The monitors scream before I reach the room.

I’m already moving, hands slick in my gloves, chest tight. We’re halfway through a night shift that’s been too long already.

The second I get in the room, it’s chaos. Nurses. Crash cart. Two residents yelling orders that clash in the air.

The patient—a woman in her thirties, post-C-section—flatlines before we can stabilize.

I do chest compressions.

We pause for a pulse check. There’s nothing.

I do another round of compressions.

And another.

And she’s still gone.

The attending calls time. 3:42 a.m.

Everything goes still.

One of the nurses starts peeling off her gloves, slow and robotic. The resident nearest me leans against the wall, eyes distant.

I don’t move.

“Jameson,” Dr. Patel says, touching my shoulder gently. “You did everything right.”

I blink at her. My hands are still hovering in the air, like my brain hasn’t caught up.

“Take a minute,” she says. “Get some air.”

I nod. Step out into the hallway. The cold bites at my sweat. My scrubs are damp. My shoes are sticky. I lean against the wall and stare at the cracked tile and try— try —not to cry.

But my hands won’t stop shaking.

And my chest won’t loosen.

What am I doing here?

If I can’t handle this now, how the hell am I supposed to be a nurse for real?

I rub at my face. Breathe. Try again.

Dr. Patel finds me ten minutes later near the vending machines.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I shake my head no. “Does it ever get easier?”

“This job? This place? It’ll break your heart a thousand ways,” she says, voice soft. “But if it stops hitting you this hard?” She shakes her head. “ That’s when you should worry.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

She rests a hand on my shoulder again. “Go home. Sleep. You’re human, Rilee. That’s not a flaw.”

I clock out an hour later, shoes dragging, eyes heavy. It’s still dark when I step outside. My keys feel foreign in my hand. My car hums as I start it. The drive home blurs.

By the time I get to the house, it’s nearly 5:00 a.m.

And I’m not okay.

The house is quiet.

Lights off, save for the soft glow under the kitchen door.

I slip inside like a ghost. Shoes in hand. Scrubs still on. I just want to shower, crawl into bed, and pretend I’m someone else for a few hours.

But then I see him.

Grayson.

Sitting at the kitchen table in sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt, one ankle propped on his knee, a sketchbook open beside a half-finished cup of something that’s definitely not water.

He looks up when I enter, his eyes shadowed but alert. Steady in the way that makes it hard to breathe.

“You’re home late,” he says, voice low.

“Rough shift,” I murmur.

He nods once. “You hungry?”

I shake my head.

“Thirsty?”

I hesitate.

Then shrug. “Maybe.”

He stands, moves with that quiet, purposeful ease that always makes it feel like he’s carrying a secret. Opens a cabinet, pulls down a mug.

“Sit,” he says.

And for some reason, I do.

The chair is cool beneath me. My limbs feel weightless and heavy all at once.

Grayson moves like he’s done this a thousand times—water, kettle, a bag of mint tea he found somewhere in the chaos of their pantry. He pours a splash of something amber into the mug before adding hot water.

I lift a brow. “Whiskey?”

“Just a little,” he says. “Call it medicinal.”

He places the mug in front of me. His fingers brush mine. Barely. But I feel it all the way down.

We sit there in silence.

Then he asks, “You want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

He nods again. Doesn’t push.

“I lost a patient tonight,” I say finally. “Young. Healthy. Everything looked fine… until it wasn’t.”

His gaze doesn’t shift. Doesn’t flinch. Just stays on me, calm and grounded.

“It was horrible,” I whisper. “Feeling so helpless.”

“You’re human, Rilee.”

I look at him, startled.

His look softens. “Some things are supposed to shake you.”

My throat gets tight again.

I sip the tea to keep from crying. It’s warm, sharp, slightly sweet. It helps. A little.

I glance at him. “Why are you up?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the steam curl off my mug.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says eventually. “Old habit.”

I study him.

There’s more under that. So much more. But he’s not ready.

So I say nothing.

He leans back in his chair, arms folding loosely over his broad chest.

“I’ll tell you sometime,” he says, eyes still on mine. “Not tonight. But soon.”

And I believe him.

Because if there’s one thing about Grayson?

He never says anything he doesn’t mean.

The tea helps. Or maybe it’s just him.

We sit there until the warmth in my mug fades, and my bones start to feel too heavy to hold up.

“I should…” I start, voice quiet.

Grayson rises without a word.

I stand, but I wobble slightly on my feet—exhaustion crashing in hard now that the adrenaline’s gone.

He catches my elbow gently. “Come on.”

I let him guide me down the hallway.

Not to the couch.

Up the stairs to my room.

He opens the door like he’s done it a hundred times. Like this isn’t brand new and terrifying and completely out of bounds.

The lamp’s still on. My bed looks like heaven.

“I can—”

But he’s already pulling back the blanket. Quiet. Careful. Like I’m glass and not completely unraveled inside.

I sit. Peel off my sweatshirt. He watches me—eyes careful, but warm now. Not detached. Not unreadable.

Present.

I crawl under the covers and lean back against the pillows, blinking up at him.

“Thanks for the tea,” I murmur. “And… for being up.”

He nods. “Anytime.”

He turns like he’s going to go.

And I don’t want him to.

“Grayson?”

He pauses.

I sit up slightly. “I don’t get you.”

He looks over his shoulder. “No?”

“You’re quiet and calm and steady and then… sometimes I catch you looking at me like I’m the thing you’ve been trying not to want.”

That might be the whiskey talking.

Or the exhaustion.

Or the grief spiral.

He turns fully, walking back toward the bed.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then he says, voice low, “I’m not calm around you, Rilee.”

My breath stutters.

“You think I am, because I don’t explode like Hunter or flirt like Caleb. But every time you walk into a room, I feel it. All of it. And it tests every inch of restraint I’ve got left.”

I swallow.

He leans down, hands on either side of the bed, close now.

“You don’t need to be scared of me,” he says softly. “But I need you to know—I’m not some safe, quiet choice.”

He’s so close.

I reach for his shirt.

And pull.

He lets me.

And then he kisses me.

His lips are soft but firm. Careful. Like he’s holding back a storm with every inch of him.

I don’t want careful.

I kiss him harder, hands sliding into his shirt, feeling the tight line of muscle underneath. He groans—quiet, low, a sound that vibrates against my mouth and sinks all the way down.

He breaks the kiss, forehead resting against mine, breath hot. “Rilee…”

I pull him closer.

“Lay with me,” I whisper.

He hesitates for half a second, then slips under the covers beside me. His body is all heat and tension, arms still braced like he’s afraid one wrong move will break the spell.

We’re facing each other, just inches apart. My hand rests on his chest, and I can feel the way his heart kicks when I shift closer.

And then I feel it.

The unmistakable press of him against my thigh—hard, straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. My breath hitches.

He starts to move back, but I don’t let him.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, adjusting himself. “Just ignore it.”

Instead of him, I push up onto one elbow, tilt his jaw toward me, and kiss him again.

And again.

And again.

Gone are any feelings of grief or fear or exhaustion.

His hand slides up my waist, fingers splaying across my ribs, thumb brushing under the edge of my shirt.

“I’m trying to be good,” he mutters against my mouth.

“You don’t have to be.”

“Rilee…”

“Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He rolls me gently onto my back, mouth never leaving mine, hands slipping under my shirt and up to cup my breasts—thumbs flicking over my nipples until I moan into his mouth.

He pulls my shirt off, slow and reverent, eyes devouring every inch of me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “So fucking soft.”

He leans down, kisses along my jaw, then my throat, then lower, lips trailing heat all the way down.

One hand slides between my legs, teasing, testing while his tongue moves over my nipple.

I whimper, and he takes it as it was intended—don’t stop. He unties my scrubs and helps me shimmy out of them. My panties are next, joining the scrubs on the floor beside the bed.

“You’re already wet,” he groans, moving his hand back to the juncture between my thighs. “You want this bad, don’t you?”

I nod, breathless.

He kisses me again, lips barely brushing mine. “Good. I want to make you fall apart for me.”

His fingers move slow at first—just enough pressure, just enough teasing to make my hips buck toward him.

“You like that?” he murmurs, voice dark.

“Yes,” I gasp.

“You’re so warm,” he whispers, kissing just below my collarbone. “So soft.”

I moan as he slides a finger inside—then two. His thumb finds my clit, circles in steady, devastating strokes that make my whole body shiver.

“Let go for me, baby,” he breathes, watching my face like it’s the only thing that matters. “You don’t have to be strong right now. You just have to feel.”

And I do.

I rock my hips against his big hand, loving the way his thick fingers feel buried inside me while he pets my clit over and over and over again. Gah. The man is laser-focused.

It’s heaven…

I’ve never met a man this obsessed with my clit, but I am here for it.

“Gray,” I pant out his name, pussy tightening.

“That’s it, angel,” he grunts, eyes half-closed as he gazes at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Come all over my fingers.”

The orgasm hits hard—sharp and hot and clenching around his fingers. I cry out, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling.

He stays there, holding me through it, fingers pumping slower, but not withdrawing and whispers sweet things I barely hear through the rush in my ears.

When I finally come down, dazed and panting, he kisses my neck and murmurs, “That’s one.”

I blink at him, dizzy. “One?”

He grins—rare and dark. “You think I’m stopping there?”

I let out a breathless laugh, then push him onto his back.

“Your turn.”

I push him onto his back and straddle his thighs, eyes trailing down his body as I tug his waistband lower.

He lifts his hips, lets me strip him.

And when he’s fully bare in front of me?

Holy. Hell.

I’d thought Caleb was impressive—and he is. Long. Smooth. Pretty in a way that’s almost artistic.

But Grayson?

Grayson’s bigger.

Thicker. Heavier in my hand. A darker flush at the tip.

I wrap one hand around him, then the other, and still—just barely.

“I can’t even fit you in one hand,” I whisper, breath catching as I stroke him slowly.

He groans—deep and guttural, head falling back against the pillow.

“You’re killing me,” he growls, voice ragged.

I lean over him, press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, then trail my mouth down his chest.

“You have a really nice cock,” I murmur, kissing a path along his inked chest. “It’s so hard for me.”

He lets out a wrecked sound, hips twitching. “Keep talking, baby,” he pants. “That mouth of yours is dangerous.”

I grin and stroke him a little harder, twisting my wrist. His abs tense, the muscles in his thighs flexing. My hand slides up and down and Grayson’s breath grows shaky. I love him like this—overcome and mine.

“You’re gonna make me come, just like that…” he gasps, one hand tangling in the sheets, the other in my hair.

And then he comes apart.

It’s not fast. And it’s not quiet. Spurts of thick cum jet out of him over and over while his abs tense and tremble.

When he finishes, it’s with my name on his lips, his hands fisting in the sheets, hips jerking once, twice—then still.

We lie there after, breathing hard and I wonder what the hell I’m getting myself into.