[Infirmary – 9:42 PM]

The lights were dim.

Not off. Just low enough to feel like this wasn’t standard protocol.

Lydia adjusted the blinds first. Then the lock. The soft click echoed louder than it should have in the empty room.

This is wrong.

She knew it.

But she didn’t stop.

Garren was already seated on the bench—shirt off, sweat still clinging to his neck. He hadn’t showered after training. She could smell the faint mix of leather, salt, and something dark underneath.

He watched her without saying a word.

She grabbed the clipboard just to have something in her hands.

“Vitals first,” she said.

“Of course.”

He offered his wrist, and she took it—gloves off this time.

Why are my hands shaking?

She felt his pulse under her thumb. Steady. Warm.

She couldn’t focus.

His eyes were on her, locked in.

Not playful.

Not even smug.

Just calm. Like he knew what was coming, and was only waiting for her to admit it.

“Heart rate’s high,” she said softly.

“You haven’t touched my chest yet.”

She hesitated.

He didn’t move.

She reached for the stethoscope—fingers brushing the edge of the tray.

Garren leaned back just enough to let her get closer.

She bent forward, the cold disc against his skin, just above his heart.

One breath. Two.

Her eyes flicked up—he was staring directly at her. Lips parted, jaw loose. Relaxed, but completely in control.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

Her hand moved lower. Just under his rib cage. The scar from before sat just beneath her fingers, familiar now.

She didn’t move it right away.

Didn’t pretend she wasn’t staring.

“You like that one,” he murmured.

Her breath hitched.

She pulled back fast, ripping the stethoscope from his skin like it burned her.

“This was a mistake,” she whispered.

“You locked the door.”

She turned her back to him. “You’re nineteen. I’m—”

“Wanting this.”

She didn’t answer.

He stood, slow, no sudden moves. Just the quiet creak of the bench under his weight.

She heard him move behind her.

Then felt it.

His hand brushed her hip—light, like he was giving her time to move away.

She didn’t.

Don’t turn around.

But she did.

She turned to face him and stepped back until her thighs hit the exam table behind her.

Garren didn’t rush.

He stepped in, close enough for her to feel the heat off his chest.

Still not touching her.

Not yet.

“You were thinking about this the first time I walked in,” he said low.

She swallowed. “That’s not true.”

He leaned in closer.

“Then why didn’t you stop me?”

She didn’t have an answer.

So he kissed her.

Slow at first—just the brush of lips.

Testing.

Tasting.

And when she didn’t pull away, he deepened it.

His hands were still at his sides, letting her fall into it on her own.

And she did.

Her hands reached up, fisting the front of his damp shorts like she needed something to hold onto. His mouth moved over hers—hungry, but not wild. Just enough to make her gasp when he pulled back.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered, breathless.

“Then tell me to stop.”

Silence.

Her eyes flicked to the door.

Then to his mouth.

She kissed him first this time.

Harder.

Needier.

Her hands moved to his back, fingers running over the curve of his spine, down the line of his old scars. She shouldn’t have touched them. She knew it.

But she did.

Garren groaned softly into her mouth, and that was the moment she lost what was left of her control.

His hands found her waist, gripping firmly.

Pulling her closer.

Their bodies met—hot, slick, aligned in all the wrong ways that felt far too right.

Her skirt rode up as he lifted her onto the exam table without effort. She barely registered how easy it was for him. Just felt the cold edge against the back of her thighs and the heat of him between her knees.

“Still want to stop?” he asked.

She shook her head, lips parted.

He kissed her again.

And this time, his hands moved.

Up her thighs.

Under the hem.

Fingers pressing against damp lace that should’ve been dry if this were just a professional visit.

Her head fell back.

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t gloat.

He just whispered, “Been thinking about this since day one.”

And she broke.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him in like gravity, like this was always going to happen.

And maybe it was.

God help me, I don't care anymore.

His mouth moved to her neck.

Not rushed. Not wild.

Just slow, controlled pressure—each kiss dragging heat through her skin like a current she couldn’t resist. Lydia tilted her head instinctively, giving him access she swore she wouldn’t.

He knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how far to push.

Garren’s hand slipped beneath her blouse, fingers brushing up her ribcage, knuckles grazing the underside of her bra. She gasped at the contact—sharp and quiet—and her hips shifted forward without her permission.

Her body was moving faster than her mind.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t need to.

He just moved the fabric up, baring her skin to the cold air, to his heat.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured again.

She didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Because she didn’t want him to.

Lydia grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down into another kiss—deeper this time. Raw. Hungry. Her tongue slid against his with a need she hadn’t let herself feel in years.

His hand cupped her breast, thumb brushing across the peak through the thin lace.

She gasped again.

Soft.

Shaky.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“Still want this?”

She didn’t answer with words.

She arched into him.

He took that as a yes.

His hand moved lower, dragging her underwear aside—not tearing, just pushing. Like he wanted her to feel every second of this, every calculated inch of contact. He pressed two fingers against her folds, slow and firm.

Slick.

Warm.

Already soaked for him.

She bit her lip to keep from moaning—but it broke out anyway. Just a small, helpless sound that made his jaw tighten.

“You’ve been holding this back,” he said. “Haven’t you?”

She nodded.

Barely.

His fingers dipped inside.

She clenched the edge of the table, trying not to fall apart right there. But he didn’t stop. He curled them just right, hitting that spot she never thought he’d find so easily. Her breath came faster now, her legs tightening around his waist.

“Garren—”

That was the first time she said his name like that.

Like it meant something more than control.

His mouth found hers again, swallowing her sounds, his free hand gripping her thigh to keep her open, keep her still.

It didn’t take long.

She was close already.

Too close.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice ragged.

He didn’t.

He moved his fingers faster—just enough pressure, just enough rhythm—and she broke.

Her legs shook.

Her head fell back.

And she came.

Hard.

Right there on the exam table, in the middle of the locked infirmary, with a nineteen-year-old student whispering against her skin.

“Good girl.”

Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

But she didn’t pull away.

She stayed there.

Wrapped around him.

Sweating. Shaking.

Ruined.

And when she finally looked up at him, her voice was quiet.

“This never happened.”

He smiled.

It wasn’t cruel.

Just confident.

“We’ll see.”