Head Above Water Pt. 02

Then she left, Kevin following at her heels, wagging his tail.

Wes had been right. She really was sweet.

I found the light switch to the right of the door. I switched it on to an open-floor home, finding myself in the living room. The dining space and kitchen were all in view. Opposite it was a hallway with two doors and a set of stairs leading to an upstairs floor. It looked eerie and dark up there. I decided I wasn't going to be exploring.

I took off my shoes by the door and put my duffel bag off to the side. His carpet wasn't plush, but it was clean. I made my way to the fridge, feeling thirsty. I was about to pull it open when I found a note there, set in place by an avocado magnet. I couldn't help but laugh.

'I'll be lucky if I'm home by 9. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa. Miss you, Dion.

-Wes'

My eyes misted. In all my life, no one had ever written to me that they missed me. Other kids got it in notes in their packed lunches, but I never got anything but the free lunches at school. I hadn't realized how much it still hurt me deep inside until I read Wes's note. He made my heart feel full, so full that the feelings were spilling to the brim, falling as tears from my eyes. I wiped them away hastily and opened the fridge to help myself to a bottle of water.

I took stock of the kitchen after that. I'd decided on the drive over that I was going to have dinner ready for him when he came home. It was the least I could do after he spent all day saving small lives. I found all the ingredients for a vegetarian lasagna so I got started on that. I wasn't a very good cook (I didn't have the time), but lasagnas were easy.

I set my phone on the kitchen counter and started a playlist of some of my favorite music. I sang and rapped along as I prepped the veggies, doing my best to stay away from the avocados that he'd laid out for me on the counter. I suspected he had them counted, and I knew for a fact that he'd laugh if he knew I'd eaten one within hours of getting to his place. Still, it was tempting.

Once the lasagna was in the oven, I danced in the kitchen, singing along to songs and thankful that all the curtains were drawn. It was only seven in the evening, still too early to be worried about being caught by Wes. I was an idiot, of course. I should have known better.

"House so empty, need a centerpiece. Twenty racks a table cut from ebony. Cut that ivory into skinny pieces. Then she clean it with her face, man I love my baby. You talking about money, need a hearing aid. You talking 'bout me, I don't see a shade. Switch up my style, I take any lane. I switch up my cup, I kill pain."

Don't ask me why I know all the lyrics. I listened to this song on repeat when working out. Right now this was practically a workout. I swayed my hips as I pulled the lasagna out of the oven.

"Look what you've done. I'm a motherfuckin' starboy."

"Are you?"

I almost dropped the pan.

"Holy shit," I said, putting it quickly on the burner.

I turned to find Wes leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and with the most amused expression on his face.

"I thought you weren't coming home until nine," I said, walking over to my phone to turn off the music.

"I said I'd be lucky if I got out by nine. I was luckier than I thought."

"Don't talk about this ever again," I muttered.

He laughed.

"Oh, no. I'm never gonna let you live this down."

"Fuck you."

"I thought we had a no 'whatever' rule tonight."

"I'm leaving."

Wes walked over and put his arms around me. I didn't fight it. God. It felt so good. He was warm, impossibly warm, and the way we fit was right, just right.

"Don't leave," he said, rubbing my back.

"Still considering it."

He tipped my head back.

"Let me change your mind."

"No," I said stubbornly, looking away. "You nearly scared me to death."

"I would've performed CPR immediately. I'm not letting you die on me."

"You're not funny. Some warning would have been nice."

"I only give warnings to women that sleep with me."

"I hate you. Pervert."

"Why are you smiling then?"

Because you're here.

"Because you're an idiot."

"I missed you and your meanness, Celine Dion," he said, looking at me with those dark ocean eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"My last name isn't Dion."

"We can pretend," he said, leaning down. He kissed my neck, making me gasp.

"I thought you said you weren't going to come onto me."

"You have all your clothes on."

"You act like you don't want them to be."

"I don't."

"Wes."

"I'm kidding. What's for dinner?"

"Vegetarian lasagna."

"You didn't have to," he said, but I could tell that he was touched.

"I wanted to."

"However can I thank you?"

"You'll think of something."

We were smiling at each other, grinning our ears off, and I can't say that I could even find it in me to hide how fucking happy I was to see this guy. I'd spent a lifetime putting up walls and protecting myself, but Wes was showing me that it was okay to let my guard down sometimes, that there were some people in this world that weren't going to hurt me. He'd taken my barren, empty heart and breathed it back to life.

"I really did miss you," he said softly.

"Show me."

When his lips met mine, he was impossibly gentle, his mouth moving with mine, slow and sweet. We took each other in, kissing to make up for the time lost, drawing closer, holding on tight as we relinquished all control. His lips were already familiar to me, like kissing was muscle memory, like I'd done this a thousand times.

Because I wasn't drowning anymore.

I was floating.

"I missed you too," I admitted when he pulled back. He cupped my cheek in his hand and kissed me again, tenderly, like I was someone special to him, like he'd loved me for a thousand years. It scared me.

I untangled myself from his arms and made myself busy finding plates. Wes didn't say anything, probably sensing my unease. He helped me set the table, and then carefully took the lasagna to serve. He didn't ask me how much I wanted. This guy had already seen how I eat. He cut me a big slice, and I had to hand it to him, it was the perfect size.

"I'm starving," he said, picking up his fork after we'd seated ourselves at the table. Somehow I'd ended up at the head of the table with Wes to my right. It was almost comical, like he was my right-hand man and I was a mob boss or something.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I said, quickly filling my mouth with a forkful of lasagna. Ugh. It was good. So good.

"Is this legal?" he asked after he'd swallowed a few bites.

"What are you talking about?"

"What did you put in this? It's a crime for food to be this good."

I rolled my eyes.

"Just shut up and eat."

"Yes, ma'am."

We were probably halfway into our meal when his cell phone rang. He patted around his pockets until he found it, and then checked the caller ID.

"I don't mind," I said. "Take the call."

He gave me a grateful smile and answered his phone.

"This is Dr. Spenrath," he said.

That was enough to make me almost drop my fork. Obviously I knew he was a doctor, but it was still so weird that some people out there called him that instead of Wes.

"Oh hey, Mama Bear. How's your night going?"

Wes leaned back, smiling.

"Yeah, she's here," he said, glancing at me.

"Now you're just being mean. I thought you had some faith in me," he said, holding my gaze.

Wes laughed and ran a hand through his hair. I could hear some talking on the other end of the line, and then the conversation got serious.

"I had a talk about that with him this morning," Wes said with an annoyed sigh. "Is he still there? Put him on."

"Sorry," Wes said, covering the phone with his hand. "You're about to see my version of the Dragon Lady. Plug your ears if you don't want to hear it."

Oh, I definitely wanted to hear this.

"Stevens," Wes said, already sounding angry. "Jesus Christ, I shouldn't even be surprised that you're up there again. And what did I tell you about staying the hell away from my patients? No, don't argue with me. You have no idea what you're talking about."

The more the person on the other end talked the more Wes tensed. His jaw was locked as he listened, his eyes blazing.

"Don't say that ever again. The nurses know what they're doing. They have years of experience on you—shut up, Stevens. You know I was on-call today so yeah, I'm pissed. I've had this talk with you too many times already—no, that's not your fucking job. Stop. Stop. Let me talk."

Oh, God. He was almost as bad as me.

"I don't care. Disobey my orders again and I'll get you kicked off this program."

I could see why Wes had liked hearing me give it to Lisa. This was kind of hot.

"I'm putting you on scut work with the interns—don't complain because I don't want to hear it. Now get the hell out of the PICU. And make sure I don't see your face tomorrow."

Wes hung up the phone and sighed.

"Fucking idiot," he muttered.

"Was that the first year?"

"It's always him. Sorry you had to hear all that."

"Oh, I didn't mind. It was kind of hot."

Wes cracked a smile.

"So, what's a PICU? And who's Mama Bear?"

"It stands for Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. Some of my patients end up there after surgery. And Mama Bear is our very highly skilled head night nurse up at the PICU. Her name's Kathleen, but everyone calls her Mama Bear because she mothers the hell out of us. Which is why that idiot first year pissed me off more than usual. She has eons of knowledge over him, but he's always walking in there and acting like he owns the place. He undermines her authority and disobeys my orders so I'm just about ready to smother him in his sleep."

"This is all sounding so familiar," I said. "Except I can actually fire people that piss me off."

"Even if I was in a position to do that I probably wouldn't. He's new so he's still in an adjustment period. He could still end up making a good doctor after his head deflates. I'm just hoping he learns that before he really does get himself kicked off the program. I don't have the patience for half the shit he does, but he's still my responsibility. I'll look like a failure if I let it get that far."

"Politics in the workplace," I said. "Exists everywhere, huh?"

Wes sighed. "Can't escape it no matter where you go."

I placed my hand over his and gave him a gentle squeeze. His gaze softened, eyes kind and thoughtful, like I'd just told him I was donating him my kidney or something.

"Well, if you ever need someone to be mean to your guys, you call me," I said, smiling. "I'll make them all cry."

"I don't doubt it, Dragon Lady," he said, leaning over. He kissed me briefly, his lips warm and his breathing controlled, though I could see that he was struggling with something.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm trying to dial it back, but I don't know how," he admitted. "I told myself I was going to take it slow because I'm scared of spooking you, but I just—I can't control myself around you."

I snorted.

"You? Control yourself?"

He cracked a smile, his deep dimples making my insides twist, making me want to reach out the trace the lines, feel his happiness in its physical form.

We didn't eat in silence. We talked about how we'd made the time pass, how we'd made it through those last few hours, how we'd managed to make ourselves deal with the fact that we weren't around each other. He talked about it freely, telling me how missing me had been the hardest thing he'd faced since his MCATs, which made me laugh and kick him under the table. He caught my feet between the two of his and played footsie with me for the rest of dinner.

"I need to shower," he said when we'd cleaned up after dinner. I was standing beside him, wiping my wet hands on a washcloth.

"Go shower then."

"You can shower first."

"I didn't come here to shower." I tried not to smell my armpits. I didn't understand why he wanted me to shower.

"Yeah? What did you come here for?"

"You tell me," I snapped. "You're the one who made me come here."

"I didn't make you do anything," he said, grabbing my wrist. He turned me to face him, guided my arms around his neck and then swayed with me in the kitchen. I rolled my eyes.

"If you hum that damn song—"

"Relax, Dion," he said, twirling me. "We don't need music to dance."

"Why are we even dancing?"

"To get you sweaty so you'll shower."

I tried to pull out of his grasp but he wouldn't let me. He wrapped his arms around my middle, chuckling as I struggled.

"You're a jerk," I said.

"And yet you like me."

He wasn't wrong.

"I hate you," I lied.

"Liar."

"Jerk."

"Savage, insufferable woman," he said. "All I'm trying to do is show you a good time."

"You are such a creep, you know that?"

"You might've mentioned it before."

"I'm still not taking a shower."

"Suit yourself. I am," he said, releasing me and walking away.

"You're a terrible host."

"I offered you a shower. That's very generous, especially in this drought."

"Whatever."

"I'll leave the bathroom door unlocked if you change your mind."

My mouth hung open in shock. I recovered quickly.

"When you offered me a shower you couldn't have honestly expected to take it with me."

"Drought, Celie. Gotta conserve water."

"No thanks," I said, trying not to laugh at the goofy expression on his face. He was just joking, but I liked treating him like he was a nuisance. And something told me that he liked it too.

"Remote's on the coffee table. Feel free to watch Netflix or something. I won't take long. If you get hungry then help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen."

"I just had dinner. With you. You were there."

"You could have a shower. With me. In there," he said, pointing to a door down the hall.

"Do you want to make it to your thirty-second birthday?"

"I have every intention, yes."

"Then get out of my face."

"Yes ma'am."

After Wes left to go to the bathroom down the hall, I started to wonder if I should've taken up his offer on the shower. I thought about how I'd been wearing my clothes for fourteen hours, about the strain of my bra, about just how uncomfortable I was standing there in the kitchen of a guy who had clearly entertained every last one of my antics, kissing me even though I was plain, even though I was mean, even though I was difficult and brash and broken. I thought about all of my emptiness, of all that drowning, of the past twenty-eight years I'd spent building walls miles high, protecting myself, withdrawing, hardening, becoming cold and ruthless and miserable, so miserable.

Fuck this. Fuck everything.

I undressed in the living room. It wasn't slow—it was hurried. Blouse unbuttoned. Bra unsnapped. Pants unzipped. Underwear on the floor.

And then I met fate at the bathroom door.

I walked out of my skin, out of my shell, out of my fear and walked into the steam, into the haze, into the chaos.

He saw me before I reached him, his mouth parted, his eyes darkening, his face flushed from the hot water. He picked me up before I'd even stepped into the shower, pushing me against the tiled wall; mouth on mine, hitching my leg over his forearm, touching me places that made me gasp, made me moan, made me wet.

We didn't say anything our eyes couldn't. We didn't talk, didn't speak, didn't listen to any of the voices, any of the warnings, any of the things that could take this away from us.

We. Just. Gave. In.

The water rained down on us, the only witness to what we were about to do, the only thing that could touch us without drowning us. We didn't have to ask permission, didn't have to say that we needed this, that we were crazy, we were mad. We were just too dizzy and delirious and desperate to care.

He hissed, clutched me tighter, gripping with such force that I knew I was going to bruise, inside and out. I couldn't feel anything but the thickness that was entering me, filling me up, making my very bones tremble. My body accommodated him, stretching, getting slicker, reacting to the friction, clenching around him as the pleasure ruptured through my nerves. He didn't stop, his knees buckling, smacking his hand on the wall to steady himself, changing the angle.

I gasped, clutching at his forearms, my body trembling with the desperate, wild need to come. He'd found it, the place inside of me that was enough to tip me over the edge. I let out a strangled cry as he fucked me, harder and harder, hitting that spot over and over again until I exploded, my pussy contracting around his cock, fluttering and clenching, making him groan as he came, filling me and filling me with ropes of liquid heat.

"Celine," he said, kissing me in the steam, the water raining down on us, tasting like sex. His movements were all tender and firm, using those gentle surgeon's hands on me, his fingers on my scalp, massaging shampoo into my hair; the soap in his hands, covering every inch; behind the ears, behind the knees, behind the feelings and the emotions, cleaning all of it, stripping all the ugly from me, making me feel like I wasn't plain, like I wasn't hard to look at. Because the way he looked at me convinced me otherwise; the way he touched me, the way he kissed me, not even knowing that when he did it he was kissing all the scars inside.

And now they were healing.

He dried me first, kissing my legs, my shoulders, my neck. Everywhere the towel touched, so did he. Such tenderness that it made my eyes water, made me remember that no one had ever done this for me before. No one had ever cared.

His bathrobe was too big for me, but it didn't matter because he took me upstairs to bed and took it off of me, parting my thighs and showing me again what it meant to come so hard that I could stars. We spent ourselves in each other's bodies, fucking and making love and all the things in between. There were no empty spaces, just skin to skin, transferring warmth, transferring heat and fire.

Then we tangled together in the sheets, tethered by arms and legs and limbs, settling into each other's arms.

And we slept.