I’ve never had someone spoon me all night. I didn’t even know it was possible. In my experience, whoever I’m with usually rolls away, and we sleep with our backs to each other, hugging the edge of the mattress on our respective sides.

But Austin has been flush against my back all night. Even after I woke up and slid out to use the bathroom. When I climbed back into bed, he wrapped an arm and leg around me, snuggled his face into my neck, and we both fell back asleep. So it’s no surprise when I woke up with his hand on my hip. If I’m completely honest, it’s the kind of intimacy I’ve always longed for.

I’ve never had many boyfriends. Too busy. Too picky. Too cold.

So I’ve been told.

I don’t think I’m cold, but that’s what a few former beaus have told me. I guess I’m not as demonstrative as they’d have liked me to be. It bothered me at the time. In some ways it still does. I’m not the best at showing affection. I try to reign in my feelings and stay stoic most of the time. I had to learn that to be able to talk with my patients and their families. I care. Obviously, I care. But I can’t let myself get too attached or I become useless. My head isn’t where it needs to be.

I guess I took that into relationships as well. My focus isn’t being extra cutesy for a guy. My focus was always studying, grades, internships, and volunteering. Anything that took me to the next level to achieve my goals. Trusting another person too much, sometimes means they get the upper hand. They can use your weakness against you. And as a female in a male-dominated field, I can’t let feelings get in the way of focus.

A relationship had never been a goal.

Maybe a relationship had never been a goal for me because I wasn’t the one guys flocked to. Maddie and Emily never had a problem. I pretended it wasn’t a big deal because I had bigger things to worry about, but deep down, I wondered why I never got pursued. Even when I was in relationships, with the “perfect” matches Mama steered me toward—I never felt a true connection with anyone.

Until Austin. His gaze during the show entranced me. The connection was so thick it was almost visible. I can’t explain why. It’s like I knew him. Trusted him.

“Why are we awake?” Austin rasps. His eyes are still closed, his hair sticking up at every angle, which isn’t too different from how it looked at the end of his set last night, so I have a feeling he doesn’t care much about bedhead.

“I’m awake because I have to get to work. You should sleep.”

“It’s not even light out yet.”

“My patients don’t wait for the sun to rise,” I say softly.

Austin rolls to his side, hooks his arms around my waist, and pulls me closer to him. “I imagine being responsible for so many people is exhausting—mentally and physically.”

It’s interesting that he mentioned the mental stress. He’s right, it’s just as mentally exhausting as it is physically, but most people don’t acknowledge that aspect. “Yeah, it is. The hours are crazy. But my workload has changed recently, so it doesn’t feel as overwhelming as it once did.”

“Why is that?” His eyes are open now, seemingly interested. This isn’t the morning-after conversation I expected to be having.

“I was in a car accident a few months ago and my hand was severely damaged.” I flex my right hand as I speak, as if that will make it better. “For normal, everyday activities, it works just fine. Unfortunately, surgery isn’t a normal activity and I’m unable to operate right now.”

His entire body tenses. “Oh man. I’m sorry, Liz.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him, touched by his concern.

“I don’t believe that.” He must notice the side-eye I’m throwing him, because he continues. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel worse. I just mean, you can’t possibly be okay with it. Not after all that school and training. Not being able to operate has to be killing you.”

Tears spring to my eyes, but I blink them back. “Yeah. It sucks, but I was very lucky to have the opportunity to get into a fellowship while my hand heals.”

Talking about the injury and healing out loud creates a lump of disappointment in my throat. Mostly because I won’t be able to keep lying to people for much longer. Also because the way I got into my fellowship was total privilege bullshit. My mother and father both pulled every string they had in the hospital—which is a lot, considering they’ve given enough money to have their name on one of the wings.

“Did you always want to be a surgeon?”

“Yes and no. My parents had quite a bit of influence in my career.”

“You’re an adult now. You can choose your own path.”

“Yes, I know, but, the expectations are—” I close my mouth and shake my head. He’d never understand the pressure I have from my family. Not just the pressure to become something—but to make them proud, and not tarnish the family name.

“We’re not so different, Liz,” Austin says. “Middle-class parents have expectations for their kids, too.”

“I know. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“You think my mom loves that I barely graduated high school and I’m trying to make it as a musician? She’s never tried to hinder my passion, but I’m sure she wanted me to choose something stable.”

My mind wanders back to the brief conversation I had with his mom last night. It didn’t sound like she ever wanted to push him toward a job he hated, just to be stable. But then again, I don’t know their family dynamic. Or maybe Austin assumes something that his mom never really felt because that’s what people who live a “non-traditional” life assume of their parents.

Case in point, Emily thinks Mama and Daddy hate her for the life she chose. It goes deeper than that. I truly think they would have accepted anything she wanted to pursue, but she chose to walk away from our family, which hurt and angered them. Because of that they’re being even more judgmental than they probably would have been if she hadn’t abandoned them.

“That’s the difference,” I say, rolling to my side to face him. His arm doesn’t move, still resting across my waist. There’s comfort in the way he keeps me close, which lulls me into believing this is a safe space to open up about anything.

I’m trying my hardest not to sound like I think I’m better than him because I’m not, but it’s going to sound that way when I explain my family’s expectations of me. “Your mom lets you live your own life. You didn’t want to go to college—cool. You want to be a musician—she supports your decision to follow your passion even if it might not be the path she would have chosen for you.”

“Yeah. She’s pretty kick-ass.”

I smile. She seemed pretty kick-ass.

“When I was—I don’t know, ten?—I mentioned I wanted to be a doctor. Despite the countless other professions I’d mentioned in passing when I was a kid, that’s the one my mother ran with. The next day I found a shiny new copy of the Atlas of Human Anatomy, wrapped with a red ribbon, on my bed with a note about the amazing Latin tutor she’d found for me.”

“Ten?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.” He sweeps a hand across my skin, from hip to neck, where he stops to rub gently. It feels amazing on my stressed muscles.

“Yeah. After that, my future medical career was the only thing my parents talked about. They were enthusiastic about it. I loved the attention. Soon being a doctor wasn’t just a random answer I gave when someone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. It consumed my thoughts—and my life. It started with Latin lessons and online anatomy classes, on top of my regular schoolwork, continued into setting my class schedules according to classes that would be most relevant to the career. Then I had to observe at multiple medical practices and hospital departments to see which specialties and settings I liked best. By senior year of high school, I had interned with some of the top neurosurgeons, cardiologists, and oncologists in Charlotte. I had to choose from there.”

Austin’s face is pale, the eye that isn’t hidden by the pillow is wide with surprise as I speak. It’s a normal reaction, no matter who I tell. Even people who have overzealous parents, who want their kids to be as high-achieving as mine want me to be.

“You really had no choice.”

I bite my lip. “I did. Just like you said. I could have told them I didn’t want to be a doctor.”

Austin laughs. “No. You couldn’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have a feeling you do things to please your parents. You would have never told them that you didn’t want to be a doctor.”

He’s right. If the medical program had been too difficult for me, I probably would have told them, but other than that? Nope. I’ve never admitted that to anyone though. The Commons don’t talk about “what ifs.” We talk about accomplishments.

“That’s true to an extent,” I agree. “Technically, I did have a choice. I could have joined our family business. And while, I know my parents would’ve been happy with that choice, they had their hearts set on my becoming a surgeon. I was extremely aware of how much turning back would disappoint them. And I never wanted to disappoint my parents.”

“Why?”

“Because they set me up with a beautiful life. And all the privilege. It would be like I was ungrateful for everything they gave me to be a step ahead of everyone else.”

“But if that’s not what’s in your heart.” He lifts his head and adjusts on the pillow so I can see his entire face.

I laugh hollowly. “My parents don’t care about what’s in my heart. Passion is just a seven-letter word. It’s a hobby, not a career.”

I glance at Austin, whose previously interested expression switches to a look of sadness.

“You think my father loves the stores? Heck no! He knew his older brother would take over my grandfather’s company, so he had to create his own success. Constructing a business from the ground up gave him credibility and made him a powerful person in the community on his own—if you can call it that since he used a loan from my grandfather. It’s the power. The influence. Not the actual business. I’m sure he can’t wait until Maddie finally takes it over.” I stop, realizing that I’ve said way too much. I’ve never said anything like that out loud about my father.

“Who’s Maddie?”

“My other sister. There are three of us: Maddie, Em, and me.”

Austin shakes his head as if trying to loosen thoughts. “Can we back up a minute? I don’t know anything about you or your family. Your dad created Commons Department Stores? Not your grandfather? I thought that was your family’s legacy, like how you guys got ri—”—he stops, changing his wording mid-sentence—“grew your wealth.”

Being with Austin is so easy, it feels like we’ve known each other forever. I’m not used to having in-depth conversations with people who don’t know my family. I forget that Austin isn’t entrenched in Charlotte society. Then again, I probably wouldn’t have gone off like I did if he were someone familiar with my family. I’ve never been able to talk this openly about it before. Things have a way of getting back to my father.

“No. My family’s legacy is real estate. Commons Property Development.”

“And Commons Department Stores?”

“Those are fairly recent, but obviously booming, and yes—they will be my father’s legacy.”

“Obviously,” Austin repeats.

It’s not angry or sarcastic, more like he’s a bit overwhelmed. I’m not used to overwhelmed. I’m used to having to prove my family’s worth against other families. It’s not hard, but most men I’ve dated seemed to be in competition with me on whose family is wealthier or more powerful. Or else that’s the reason they want to be with me—to enhance their status. As if we’re back in the days of dowries and marriage to merge the most powerful families, to continue to conquer and rule.

I can’t even imagine what Maddie would think if she knew I was lying naked next to Austin right now. I don’t even know what I think.

What started as a fun, easy, one-night stand with a ridiculously sexy stranger, turned into a therapy session during a vulnerable time in my life. Not sure if the story of my first one-night stand gets any better than that.

I’m trying to ignore the pull to him that has me feeling like I’m going to cry on the ride home.

Two guitars rest on a stand in the far corner, the only items that give any indication of his personality. The rest of the room is plain. Not much color. Everything is worn—not dirty—worn, as if it’s been used for years, but not antique. An oak dresser, matching nightstand. His bed is on the floor.

“What do your parents do?” I ask, changing the subject slightly. Though it seems like a weird question to be asking about his parent’s jobs since we’re both adults.

“My mom is the office manager at a small financial planning firm and my dad is dead.”

“Oh! I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t kill him. He killed himself.”

I don’t know what to say. His bluntness isn’t something I’m familiar with from other people. I’m usually the blunt one.

Thankfully, Austin continues, “My dad had an amazing mind. He also had bipolar disorder. Genius and madman.”

“How long has he been gone?”

Austin glances at the ceiling as if it holds the answer. “Right around ten—no—fifteen years. Damn. Time flies.”

“Indeed,” I whisper.

Silence envelops the room, save for the distant chirping of birds waking up. Despite the heavy topic, it’s not an uncomfortable quiet. I scoot closer and lay my cheek against Austin’s chest, listening to the beat of his heart against my ear. He’s completely calm, an interesting vibration after such an intense discussion. When I squeeze his torso, he tightens his arm around me.

“My father found peace,” Austin says, breaking the silence. “We’d discussed his mental health as a family on multiple occasions. It’s not like we were waiting for it to happen, but we weren’t surprised when it did. Was it still absolutely devastating? Yes. But I know that he is at peace and his soul is free.

“I think that’s part of what keeps me so focused on my music. There’s always that thought in the back of my mind that I could get pulled down by that same kind of darkness. Music has been my outlet for as long as I can remember. If I don’t create, I could go down the same road that he did.”

“Are you bipolar?” I ask softly. Mental illness doesn’t scare me, but knowing gives me the ability to understand him better and how to handle aspects of our relationship.

Relationship. Where did that thought come from?

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’ve never been diagnosed. Mom has been pretty vigilant about keeping tabs on me. I’ve gone through bouts of situational depression, though I can’t say I’m always depressed. It’s usually due to something impacting my life. And I’m equipped with the tools to combat it.”

“It’s good that you have those tools. That’s a huge part of the battle.”

“I keep forgetting you’re a medical professional. You probably know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Somewhat. It’s not my specialty, but I’m fairly knowledgeable. I am a doctor, after all.” I try to say it in a jovial way and hope Austin knows I’m kidding and not being obnoxious.

“Oh, I know. The big MD.” His fingers dance across the skin under my arm and crawl up. I curl into him and laugh at the sensation. “You’re ticklish, doctor? I would’ve thought you’d have tools to combat that.”

“Oh, I do.” I push myself up and out from under his arm, kneel over him, and attack his sides. He immediately brings his knees up to his chest to prevent me from getting to sensitive places, but I don’t let up. “Tickle wars are known to combat situational depression after a one-night stand.”

“Is there medical evidence supporting that claim?” Austin teases between laughing. “Can you point me to a journal article?”

“I’ll write it,” I tell him, finally halting the attack.

“I love your passion for life.”

“Excuse me?” I’m completely taken aback. I’m hovering over the lowest point in my life right now. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to break down every day, wondering when the bottom will finally drop out.

“Your smile. Your energy. The way you dance. The way you fuck. I can tell you put everything you have into everything you do. I could see your light the first time I saw you. Your heart is even more beautiful than your face.”

“I think that’s a compliment.”

“It is. I totally want to lick your heart.”

“You’re very strange.”

“Thank you.”

I laugh. “You can lick other things.”

“What kind of things can I lick?” He lifts his hand to my face and caresses my cheek with the back of his fingers. “I need you to tell me. Out loud.” He bites his bottom lip as he traces mine with his thumb.

The mirror effect. Those penetrating eyes. My heart hammers against my chest. Lust floods my core. It feels like he’s about to pounce on me in five, four, three, two…

“My eyeball,” I deadpan. Now is not the time to get all hot and heavy again. I really do have to get home and get ready for work.

“Who’s the strange one now, Liz?”

“As my sister would say, I’m just trying to vibe on your level.”

Austin laughs. “I don’t even know your other sister, but I can tell that’s an EmVee line.”

“Yup.”

Talking and laughing with Austin is so easy. The flow is there. I can say what I feel openly and honestly without having to think about forming the correct answers because I know he’s not waiting to challenge me or pounce on something he can use as a weakness. I haven’t had a conversation like this with a man. At least not in a relationship or with most of my colleagues.

If I really think about it, the only men I’ve spoken with, who didn’t challenge me, were people who worked for our family. Erik, our landscaper, doesn’t challenge me. He’s a pretty chill guy. Then again, he’s being paid by my parents, and the client is always right, so why would he challenge the people who help keep his business running?

Light rain pelts the window next to Austin’s bed, reminding me again that I need to leave, even though I don’t want to. “I should call my cab.”

“I can give you a ride home.”

The thought of getting back on Austin’s motorcycle terrifies me. Not only because I’m scared of motorcycles, but also because it’s raining and I’ve been extremely anxious about driving in the rain since my accident. It’s a fear I need to let go of, but I haven’t quite gotten there yet.

“I have a truck,” Austin says, as if he can feel my apprehension. “I wouldn’t ruin your sex hair by taking you home on my bike in the rain.”

“What?” My hand flies to the back of my head, where the thick locks seem to be only slightly matted. Still, not being presentable in the presence of others isn’t an option. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Of course.” Austin sits up, folds his pillow in half, then lays back down. “Wanna use my toothbrush, too?”

“Oh gosh, no! That’s absolutely disgusting.”

“I know. I’m so glad you didn’t say yes.”

“Has anyone ever said yes?”

“Yes.”

I groan and roll off the bed. “I can’t hear this right now.”

“I didn’t let him!” Austin calls behind me.

Without turning around, I slip out the door and tiptoe to the shared bathroom at the end of the hall. Doesn’t seem like anyone else is up, but I don’t want to take any chances. Especially after the reaction Austin got bringing me home last night. It was apparent that his friends did not approve of his choice. All that pounding on the door last night was an over-the-top way to let me know that I was not welcome. Which is fitting, I suppose, since my family and friends wouldn’t approve of him either.

Everyone has their prejudices. It’s not a one-way street. The animosity between classes runs both ways.

It makes me feel a bit uncomfortable to know that his friends hate me already.

Sure, I grew up wealthy, but I work with people from all walks of life. And I perform surgery on everyone. I don’t discriminate.

Why am I even contemplating this? I’m going to walk out the door and never see this guy again—unless I go to another show. I’d definitely see them play again. Not only because I’d love to see Austin transform into that mesmerizing creature onstage, but also because I really felt the music.

Boys’ bathrooms are gross in general, but I’m pretty sure Austin’s could win some kind of award. I hover as I use the toilet, because I honestly don’t want to touch the seat. Hair of all types and lengths surround my feet. Cut facial hair sticking to dried up toothpaste clumps sit in the sink. I don’t even feel clean after washing my hands.

When I return, Austin opens one eye. “Why are we up this early again?”

“I have to be at the hospital by eight,” I say as I grab my dress off the dresser. I don’t even know how it got there. I’m pretty sure I threw it on the floor when I whipped it off. Maybe he moved it when he got up to use the bathroom. Which is sweet.

“I thought you said you couldn’t perform surgery right now?” He leans over, grabs his black boxer briefs off the floor, then sits up. “The accident…your hand?”

“I can’t, but I’m still responsible for all sorts of other procedures. I still make rounds and take care of critically ill patients. Operating is only one aspect of the job.”

“Well, that’s good, right? You’re not completely out of the game.”

I think about it for a moment. He’s right. I am still in the game. I may not be able to operate, but everything I’ve learned up to this point can be used in treating patients and giving them the highest level of care.

“I like that way of thinking. I am still in the game. If I weren’t, I’d be swept away quicker than all the hair on your bathroom floor.”

“We’re gross. I know.” He stands up and pulls up his underwear, covering his perfect ass.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not trying to be judgy, but—how hard is it to sweep?”

“It’s not!” Austin says. “It started as an experiment. I stopped cleaning, because I was the only one who did anything. That room is what happens when you wait for two other dudes to clean.”

“I see how well that’s working out for you guys.”

“Uggh! I know!” He stands up. “Next time you come over you’ll be able to eat on that floor.”

Next time I come over? Does that mean he wants a next time? Or is it a line that accidentally slipped out? Insecurity and confusion have my heart skipping and my thoughts jumbled.

“Maybe you can eat me on that floor,” I say in a rush of words that come out completely wrong.

Austin stares at me with wide eyes and a half-smile.

Oh. My. Gosh.

“That’s not what I meant. I was trying to say you can eat off that floor, not me. Geez. I—I’m so sorry.” The words rush out of my mouth without a pause.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I cover my face with my hands, hoping that will make me invisible. The door is behind me. All I have to do is turn around and run out. At least he’ll have a great story for how it all ended.

Within a second, he’s in front of me, placing his hands over mine and moving them so he can see my face. “You are nothing like I expected you to be. So many surprises.”

“Well, surgeon isn’t a personality type. We all have our own quirks.”

He laughs. “You’re more than that. I haven’t met anyone like you, Liz.”

“Good. I like being an—”

Without letting me finish, Austin presses his lips on mine. He moves his hands to my hips and pulls me into him. I automatically grip his shoulders to stop my knees from buckling. Everything about him overwhelms me, yet calms me at the same time. His kiss is soft, yet aggressive. His body is rock-hard muscle, yet smooth and warm under my hands. He touches the parts of my heart no one has ever opened up before.

“I really like doing that,” he says when he pulls away. His face is still so close, his lips brush mine as he speaks. “I really like everything about you, Liz.”

“Even my awkwardness?” I ask, looking at him through thick lashes, clumped with last night’s mascara.

“There’s nothing awkward about you.”

My phone is already opened to an app that will find me a ride within minutes. I hold it up. “How about the fact that I’m about to call a ride and slip out of here at 5 a.m.?”

“Well, that I actually expected. You probably don’t want to be seen with me.” He looks down, a rare flash of insecurity from a man who seems so self-assured.

“Exact opposite, actually. I do want to be seen with you.” Austin lifts his eyes back to mine. “I want to parade you around the hospital and say, ‘look at this phenomenal guy who likes me!’”

“You gonna make me wear a collar and leash?” Mischief flashes in his eyes and I wonder if that type of stuff is a kink for him. It’s not one I want to explore.

“You’re not a pet. You’re completely different than the type of guy everyone expects me to be with.”

He slides his hands through my hair and gazes into my eyes. A yellow ring circles his pupils, like a sunflower against the backdrop of a crystal-blue sky. “I want to be more than the bad boy you fuck to show people you aren’t what they think you are.”

“Are you even a bad boy?” I ask, avoiding the other things his statement implies. That he wants to see me again. That this is more than a one-night stand. Despite the intense feelings, I’m not sure if I’m ready for more. While I have full confidence in my abilities to handle any situation that arises in the hospital, I don’t trust my ability to handle the personal drama of losing my career and dating Austin simultaneously.

Neither is easy. Both have their own repercussions.

He releases me and takes a step back. “I don’t think so, but you seem to think I am. Let me prove you wrong.”

“Maybe some other time,” I say as I press the screen to request my ride. It’ll be here in two minutes. “I’ve gotta get downstairs.”

“Can I call you?”

“You don’t have my number.”

Another step back. “Damn. That’s cold.”

With my hand still on the doorknob, I turn around. “Thank you, Austin. You made me feel more alive than I’ve felt in months. I really appreciate that.”

“Happy I could help,” he says, but he’s not looking at me. “You have my number. Call me if you want to hang.”

His words bring an immediate smile to my face and butterflies to my stomach. I can’t remember the last time I felt true excitement about being with someone.

There’s nothing wrong with stopping to enjoy the moment, but I can’t let it get to my head. Two very different worlds. Very different goals.

He’s not what I need right now. Not when I need to refocus and refigure my entire future.