She stepped inside and the air between us felt charged, but neither of us rushed. We sat on my couch, a careful foot of space between us. She told me she was working on her second novel, a quiet story about grief and second chances. I told her about the worst shift I’d had last month, losing a young patient who reminded me of my little sister. The conversation was easy, real. No pressure, just two tired people who couldn’t sleep.
Eventually the space between us disappeared. Her knee brushed mine. My hand found her thigh, innocent at first. She didn’t pull away. Instead she turned toward me, eyes searching my face.
“I really did interrupt you,” she whispered. “Do you… still want to finish?”
My c**k jumped at the question. “Only if you want to watch.”
She nodded, cheeks pink. “I do.”
I
