It’s bullshit, and we all know it. This isn’t about convenience. It’s about control. On my turf, I set the rules. I decide when things start and end. If things get uncomfortable again, I can kick him out.
“I’ll pay double your usual rate,” Renata interjects when Riley hesitates. “Please, Riley, we need you.”
“It’s not about money.” Riley’s gaze is piercing. “I haven’t even figured out exactly what’s wrong with your shoulder. The imaging doesn’t match your symptoms. Without my equipment—”
“You have your hands,” I say, then immediately regret the way it sounds.
Riley’s face remains impassive, but something flickers in his eyes. “I’ll need to bring some supplies.”
“Fine.”
“And if I determine you need more advanced diagnostics, you’ll need to come to the hospital.”
“Fine.”
Riley sighs, uncrossing his arms. “I’m curious about your case,” he admits. “Professionally speaking. And I do want to help.” He pauses, then adds, “But only if you’re sure.”
Am I sure? No. The thought of Riley’s hands on me again makes me panic. But I need my shoulder fixed more than I need comfort.
“I’m sure,” I lie, meeting his gaze.
“All right, then.” Riley opens his calendar on his laptop. “Does Thursday work? I just had a cancellation in the afternoon.”
I feel like I’ve just stepped into the cage with a new opponent, one I don’t know how to fight. But it’s too late to back out now, so I nod. “Fine.”
8
Riley
I check the address on my phone one more time, though I’ve already memorized it. Jacob’s apartment building looms above me, industrial brick and oversized windows. The kind of place people convert to lofts when manufacturing dies in a neighborhood. I press the buzzer for 4C, my medical bag heavy in my hand, and wait. This is a terrible idea. Treating a patient in his home breaks every boundary I’ve set in my career. But since the moment Jacob bolted from my apartment, I’ve been unable to think of anything else but how he responded to my touch.
The intercom crackles. “Yeah?”
“It’s Riley,” I say, and the door buzzes open.
I take the elevator up, watching numbers illuminate above the sliding door. Four floors to remember I’m here as a doctor, not whatever the hell else happened last time. The elevator stops with a jolt that travels up my spine, the doors sliding open to reveal a narrow hallway with exposed pipes running along the ceiling.
Apartment 4C sits at the end. I knock twice, sharp and professional.
But when the door swings open, everything I’ve rehearsed evaporates. Jacob stands in the doorway, hair wet and slicked back into a half-bun, droplets of water still clinging to his neck and chest. He’s shirtless, every muscle defined like an anatomy diagram come to life. Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing a V-line that makes my mouth go dry. The thin fabric clings in ways that make me suspect he’s not wearing anything underneath.
“Hey.” His expression is guarded, like he’s already regretting this decision.
“Hi. Hope you didn’t forget we scheduled this.”
He shakes his head, stepping back to give me space to enter. “Come in.”
His apartment is a vast open space with exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the room with afternoon light. The furniture is minimal: a leather sectional facing a mounted TV, a concrete-top dining table with metal chairs, a kitchen island with industrial pendant lights. No clutter, no excess. The place breathes with space and light.
“Nice place,” I say, meaning it. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the minimalist type.”
Jacob shrugs. “Don’t need much.” He points to a door on the left. “Bathroom’s there if you want to wash up.”
I nod and head that way, grateful for the moment alone. The bathroom continues the industrial theme—concrete sink, exposed copper pipes, a massive walk-in shower with a rainfall head. I wash my hands thoroughly, a ritual that usually centers me before seeing patients. Today, it does nothing to calm my racing pulse.
When I return to the main space, Jacob stands by the windows, arms crossed over his bare chest. Light cuts across his torso, highlighting the ridges of muscle, the scars earned from his career.
“So,” he says, shifting his weight, “where do you want to do this?”