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Victoria should’ve known something was off the moment her mother agreed to The Idea without so much as a raised eyebrow. But instead, she let herself believe that Eileen had experienced a sudden metamorphosis of personality and now recognized that her daughter was no longer a nervous little girl who was afraid of her own shadow.
Even if Victoria still had to remind herself of that exact fact at least a dozen times a day.
But was it really so absurd to want her mother to see her as a full-grown, functioning adult? Victoria had done everything by the book; gone to college early like it’d been expected. Imposed, really. Crushed every competition in her path, racked up perfect grades, shiny awards, and enough participation trophies to fill three shelves—behold the spoils of overachievement. Victoria Javadi: baby genius, straight-A student, youngest undergrad in UPSOM history… and, underneath it all, just a very tired, very lonely girl.
She’d been the perfect show dog her whole life. Say “roll,” she rolled. Say “sit,” she sat. Say “get a medical degree,” and (guess what?) she got one. She’d followed every rule, coloured inside every line, smiled politely at every patronizing compliment from tutors and dinner guests and parents alike.
She’d done all of it—and still, somehow, it never felt like enough. There was always something more she could be doing, some smarter way to answer a question, some shinier, more impressive specialty she should probably be pursuing instead of OB/GYN.
Just once, Victoria wanted a pat on the back that didn’t feel like a nudge of encouragement to keep going. A firm handshake from the grown-up club and someone saying: well done, kid. You’ve made it. You can relax now.
Or at least she wanted to live in a place where she didn’t feel stifled by the weight of expectation.
At twenty-two, five months into her residency, it wouldn’t be strange if she’d already been living on her own. Figuring out how to do laundry without turning everything pink. Shoveling snow off her driveway. Maybe finally getting that much-desired driver’s license her parents kept dangling in front of her like candy on a string. Hanging cheap art prints on the walls of a slightly mouldy shoebox apartment, the rent covered by her tragically underpaid resident’s salary. But hey—at least it would be hers . Not some sleek, modern condo bought by her parents and gifted to her with a tight smile and a warning not to chip the granite countertops.
It wasn’t that she was biting the hand that fed her. Or spitting on the plate she ate off of. She loved her parents—at least, as much as one can love two emotionally unavailable people. And she got where they were coming from, really. They’d prayed for a child for almost a decade before she came along. They wanted the perfect daughter. Besides, older, wealthy parents came with their own quirks: lots of not now, honey s and maybe another day s, plus an ever-rotating cast of au pairs and private tutors, and so on.
She didn’t doubt she was loved. Just… maybe loved the way you love an idea. From a safe distance. With a lot of hopes pinned to it and not much room left for the messy reality of who she really was.
It wasn’t like growing up in her parents’ house had been an awful experience all the way through. Victoria was aware she sometimes came off like she’d clawed her way out of some tragic backstory; but that wasn’t true. Not even close. There were definite perks to being the only child of two doctors who made stupid money. Her life had been almost like a fairytale at times. Her fairy godmother took the form of a black Amex. Ballet lessons? Done. Designer shoes? No problem. A summer in Europe? Booked. Her wishlist had never known any embargoes.
And maybe that was why leaving had always felt so difficult. Like she was betraying her parents, or giving something up.
Because the truth was that she’d grown used to her gilded cage. She loved the things money could buy, the comfort of a house so big it felt oppressing, the brand of tough love that was the only love language her parents were fluent in, but more than anything, she relied on it: on the familiarity of routine; on knowing exactly where she fit in the equation of her family life.
But she needed to free herself of those leg shackles before they pulled her to the bottom of a metaphorical ocean.
Her parents wouldn’t want her to leave. They would protest and try to throw a safety net, because that was in their nature, but she didn’t want that.
If she was going to leave, she wanted to feel the real weight of it: the hiccups, the stumbles, the bumps along the way. She wanted to know what it felt like to face a problem and come up with a game plan on her own. To look at herself in the mirror, maybe a little frazzled and sleep-deprived, and say: you can do this.
Because if she was going to build a life of her own, she wanted it to feel like hers. Even if it was messy and untidy and not up to Eileen’s impossible standards.
She’d probably burn toast. Forget to pay bills. Ruin dinner by cracking a bad egg straight into the pan like an amateur. Cry on the bathroom floor to Olivia Rodrigo, convinced she was failing at life, and spiral into one or two dramatic, absolutely earned existential crises. She’d daydream about going home, crawling back into the safety of it all, letting herself be babied again. Crave it, even.
But wasn’t that sort of the point? To fall apart into a million pieces and learn how to put herself back together with no one’s help but her own?
She couldn’t stay in the nest forever. Eventually, she had to take a leap of faith. Even if her parents clung to her ankles on the way down. Even if the nest was absurdly well-furnished and smelled like her favorite Diptyque candle. Even if, deep down, she was terrified of being alone, and the thought of having no one to rely on made her want to curl up under a weighted blanket and forget all about independence.
But she had to leave. Otherwise, how else would she learn how to fly?
And so, The Idea (moving out, leaving the nest, cutting the proverbial cord, etc.) had been fluttering in the back of her mind for a while. Not in a dramatic, scream-it-from-the-rooftops kind of way. More like a soft, persistent ticking, the kind her piano teacher’s metronome used to make during lessons. The kind that evokes a thrum of anxiety that she couldn’t shake off once she realized it was there. Like an itch. It showed itself in quiet moments, such as when she was eating Chef Rehman’s perfectly spiced biryani at her parents’ immaculate white marble island, fully aware she’d never even boiled water on her own.
She knew that she probably should’ve picked up a few basic survival skills by now. For instance, how to fry an egg without setting off the smoke alarm, or the proper way to cut an onion without crying. You know, Adult things.
And, despite the comfort of it all, despite the turmoil under her skin that arose from the thought of having The Talk with her parents, she was keenly aware that she’d never learn any of those previously mentioned adult skills unless she forced herself out from under her parents’ watchful, ever-scrutinous gaze.
She’d just been too afraid to admit it out loud. Afraid to leave the comfort zone she’d spent her whole life perfectly nestled inside. But more than that, she was afraid of confronting her parents. Of sitting them down on their pristine white Arhaus sectional and laying her cards on the table: this is what I want, I know you won’t make it easy, but I want it anyway.
It felt like asking for permission and staging a rebellion at the same time.
Which, for the record, was completely terrifying—and led to a full-blown outbreak of stress hives the night before The Talk was supposed to take place.
She slathered herself in Benadryl cream and mentally rolled her eyes at the walking cliché she’d become. Brilliant former child prodigy? Check. Chronically stressed? Of course. Smothered by overinvolved, emotionally distant parents and terrified by the thought of basic confrontation? Tragically, yes.
It was incredibly ironic: having a full-body allergic reaction to the mere idea of asserting herself. Nothing said future independent woman like breaking out in hives over the thought of setting boundaries.
Oh well.
She couldn’t exactly reprogram her body’s stress response, no matter how much she wished she could. It would’ve been nice if her nervous system could tell the difference between a difficult conversation and, say, getting shot in the head. But no—every little threat sent her body into full-on code red. Nuance wasn’t in its vocabulary. Cue the stress hives.
And yet, somehow, she’d done it. Not on the couch like she’d imagined; her mother’s hands folded neatly over her crossed knees and her father’s mustache twitching in quiet amusement the second he realized Victoria was trying to Make A Point.
No, it happened in the kitchen nook, with soft morning light spilling through the big bay window, casting a soft golden glow over the neatly set table. It was the kind of lighting that made everything feel a little more possible, like the universe was cautiously making it known that it was rooting for her.
Chef Rehman appeared right on cue, setting down three servings of everything on his tray: a steaming cup of lemon ginger tea, a masala omelette cut into neat little triangles, warm paratha on the side, and a small bowl of avocado raita that looked like it belonged in a food magazine.
She looked at the spread, then pictured herself eating plain cereal in a cramped little kitchenette somewhere—and, surprisingly, it didn’t feel like a loss. Sure, she’d miss the beautifully plated breakfasts and the quiet luxury of someone else doing the hard part. But wouldn’t it feel better ( more adult! ) if she learned to cook her own food?
She took a deep breath, savored a steadying sip of her lemon ginger tea, and cleared her throat.
“I’d like to move out,” she said before she lost her grip on the handful of courage she managed to sift from the deep recesses of her overloaded brain.
Eileen blinked, clearly caught off guard. Her father lowered his teacup to its saucer, dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin, then turned to his wife, silently reading her expression, trying to figure out how best to shape his own reaction to mirror hers.
“That’s… quite unexpected,” Eileen said, reaching for the avocado raita and thoroughly spreading it over a warm slice of paratha. Her expression turned thoughtful, like someone just asked her to give her opinion on a case study.
“I know,” Victoria replied hastily. “But I’m twenty-two now, a resident… I feel ready to take that step. It’s going to be hard, I know. But I think I want that challenge.”
She was secretly proud of herself—no stammer, no shaking voice. Just cold sweat tracing a quiet trail down her back. But no one apart from herself knew about that tiny detail.
“You think?” Her mother raised an eyebrow— that eyebrow—the one Victoria knew all too well. The same look she’d given over the years, the unspoken lesson woven into it: you don’t think, Victoria, you know.
Victoria licked her lips. “I know it’s something I want.”
“Hm.” Eileen took a deliberate sip of her lemon ginger tea, glanced over at her husband—who’d been quietly watching—and gave him a gentle nudge for his take.
“Victoria seems determined,” he said, the kind of diplomatic answer designed to keep things perfectly neutral.
“I am,” Victoria jumped in.
“Well, honey, you have to think about your situation,” her mother began softly. “Residency is not easy, the salary is laughably low, and on top of the work stress, you’ll be worrying about paying the bills…”
“Of course we’d help you find a nice place to settle,” her father cut in.
“You wouldn’t be destitute,” Eileen continued from where she’d left off. “We’d absolutely provide for whatever you needed.”
“But wouldn’t it be easier to just stay here?” her father said, and Victoria realized they’d been volleying back and forth, playing for the same team. Presenting the same argument. A united front.
This was the resistance she’d expected to face. But the conversation felt surprisingly… civilized. She’d been expecting Eileen to raise her voice at any moment, but that moment simply never came. Victoria was starting to get suspicious of their reaction. But maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to be the uphill battle she’d been bracing for after all.
Maybe her parents could see that she was stifling under their care. Like an overwatered house plant.
“Well, I want to move out. And I don’t want your money—though I’m grateful you’re offering.” Victoria placed her hands on the table, a physical manifestation of the metaphor she’d conjured in her head: laying her cards out on the table, spreading them so her parents could see each one.
“We’ll see, honey.” Eileen smiled tightly, biting into her paratha, and that was that.
The Talk. Done with. The Idea placed before them, ready for inspection.
Victoria had made it through the ordeal surprisingly unscathed. Sure, she’d need to change her shirt before heading to the clinic—nervous sweating was kind of her thing—but that was a small price to pay. The hard part was over.
She’d faced her parents and told them what she wanted. Not a new laptop or a last-minute trip to Santorini—nothing they could fix with a credit card and a nod. This was different. It was emotional. It had weight. And for once, she hadn’t backed down.
She asked for a proverbial loosening of the leash, the opening of her gilded cage's door. And they didn’t react badly as she feared they would. There was resistance, as she expected, but it wasn’t unreasonable. For the first time in... maybe ever, it felt like her mother was actually listening. Like she saw her daughter not as an extension of herself, but as someone who might be capable of making decisions on her own.
That, in and of itself, felt like a small miracle. And Victoria wasn’t about to ruin the dopamine high she was riding for the rest of the day by listening to the panicked little voice in her head screeching, This was too easy! The game isn’t over!
Let Future Victoria deal with that. Today’s Victoria had earned a win.
But, of course, that voice had been right. Because you could depend on Eileen Shamsi to always have the last word.
—
The catch came later (three days after The Talk, to be exact) just as Victoria was dragging herself through the front door after a brutal shift at PTMC’s OB/GYN department. The day had been an emotional rollercoaster: two stillbirths, one ectopic pregnancy, a newborn rushed to the NICU, and a postpartum hemorrhage that had the entire team scrambling to keep the mother alive. They’d managed to save her, thankfully, but only after what felt like an hour of chaos compressed into minutes. Victoria’s feet throbbed with every step, and her chest felt like a melting pot of feelings.
She was already halfway into a meltdown when her mom appeared at the top of the staircase like some well-dressed specter and said, “I’ve made a decision about that topic.”
She didn’t need to clarify—Victoria knew exactly what that topic was. With a sigh, she climbed to the landing and looked up at her mother, bracing herself.
“I’ve found a place for you to stay. Temporarily. While you look and save for something of your own.”
Victoria nodded slowly. “That sounds… good.”
(Too good.)
“You won’t be living alone , of course. But with your opposite schedules, it’ll feel close enough.”
“Wait—” Victoria held up a hand like a stop sign. “What do you mean not alone ?”
Eileen smiled, like she was easing into the best part of the story. “Do you remember John Shen?”
Did she remember John Shen? Dr. Shen, to be exact. The man who had been orbiting her world since she'd been alive? The only son of her mother's oldest friend? Of course she remembered John Shen.
How could she not, when he was the first boy Victoria ever liked? A stupid childhood crush, of course, but there was no way to erase that from her memory. Even if she wanted to.
Two years ago, during her EM rotation, she made a very conscious effort to pretend she didn’t know him. She didn’t need to be branded around the ED as Dr. Shamsi’s kid and Dr. Shen’s pseudo–little sister. That was a double helping of nepotism no one asked for.
Naturally, he caught on. Cornered her by the lockers one day and asked, point-blank, what her deal was.
“How long do you plan on keeping this up?”
She jumped, cheeks growing hot. His tone had the faint disapproving edge of an older sibling. She wouldn’t know since she was an only child. But she imagined that was what that Tone meant.
“I just don’t want people thinking I’m here because of personal connections,” she muttered.
“But you are,” Shen said, voice maddeningly calm. “Eileen called in a lot of favors to make sure you could do your rotations here.”
“I deserve to be here,” she shot back, hurt and annoyed by his remark.
“Didn’t say you don’t.” He smiled tightly. “Look, I don’t mind you ignoring me. That’s fine. You’re young and young people act weird all the time. But you’re losing on cases I work on because of this, which, in turn, lowers your opportunity to, y’know, learn stuff.”
And she had nothing to say, because he was right. She’d been avoiding tagging along for cases he took over. She was woman enough to admit it. But it wasn’t out of a desire to antagonize him. She was worried that if they spent time together, she’d forget she was supposed to treat him like a stranger, calling him John or slipping into familiarities an MS3 definitely shouldn’t have with an attending she’d only known for, supposedly, less than a week.
But he’d spoken his piece, and she thought about it carefully and decided that maybe she was being a little too overly cautious. And maybe it was weirder if she never interacted with him. People would think she had something against him, then. Which she didn’t.
It was the opposite, actually. She liked him a little too much.
She tried her best not to actively avoid him anymore. And, wouldn’t you know it, he was right—the stuff she missed out on by keeping her distance from one of the night shift attendings was pretty significant. Abbot was a solid teacher, sure, but Shen wasn’t far behind, despite his age and recent promotion.
And if she happened to stare at him a little too long during those teaching sessions, that was her business and no one else’s.
—
A couple days after they’d smoothed things over, he was waiting for her with two Dunkin’ cups in hand.
“This is for you,” he said, holding one of the cups out like this was just another day at the hospital and not a subtle declaration of we’re closer than we ought to be.
Like anyone seeing it wouldn’t jump to all the wrong conclusions.
They were right by the entrance too, anyone could simply just come along and witness them standing together, sipping on Dunkin’, acting like pals. Gladly, there was no one around presently, but that could always change.
“C’mon, it’s not poisoned.”
“How do you think this looks? Me, accepting a drink from you?”
“Like I’m a very nice guy,” he said, grinning. “I hate tea. If you don’t take it, it’s going straight down the bathroom sink.”
Victoria lifted her chin, refusing to back down.
“Fine,” he shrugged. “I’ll text you where to find me next time.”
As they passed a trash bin on the way into the hospital, he tossed the Dunkin’ cup a little too hard.
—
She started meeting him at the garage reserved for PTMC staff. Victoria didn’t drive—hadn’t even known the place existed—but, true to his word, he’d texted her follow me when he spotted her the day after the tea fiasco. So she did, feeling like she was in a movie and he was about to offer her drugs or something.
After that, she knew her own way to the parking spot he usually took. Far enough in the back that it offered enough privacy for their clandestine meetings. Not that he took it as seriously as she did. She was always on edge and looking over her shoulder, afraid someone would catch on and loudly proclaim: look, the nepo baby is even more of a nepo baby!
“You really need to chill, you know that?” he said one day, laughing at her jumpiness and those perpetually wide, deer-in-headlights eyes.
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “Hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Just goes to show how much older and wiser I am,” he said, smug.
“Older? Sure,” she said. “Wiser? That’s... optimistic.”
He chuckled. “Brat.”
—
He always brought her a chai latte—not her favourite, exactly, but close enough. It was probably what he remembered her drinking that last summer their families spent at the lake house, when she’d been even more tightly wound than usual, buried in textbooks and pre-reading college coursework like her life depended on it.
She caught him staring at her with a funny expression on his face.
“What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he replied smoothly, leaning back against his car.
“Tell me,” she demanded anxiously, wiping her cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No,” he laughed, pulling her hand away. “Stop that—you’ll scratch your eye out.”
“Just tell me,” she insisted. “You know I can’t relax until you do.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Same thing to me.”
He shrugged. “You were making these little sounds, that’s all.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot with mortification.
“Hey, don’t do that.”
“Do what? I’m literally standing here, doing nothing.”
“I know that look on your face. You’re going into your shell.”
“I don’t have a shell!”
John gave her a slow, knowing look. “C’mon, Javadi.”
“Okay, fine—maybe just a tiny, little shell.”
He scoffed. “Yeah, sure.”
Out of nowhere, she blurted, “I’m a very well-adjusted person, you know.”
“I’m sure you are, kid.”
“Not a kid,” she mumbled, jaw clenched.
John laughed. “Look at you—old enough to get a boyfriend now. Very grown-up.”
Stupidly, she said, “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Victoria was usually bad at speaking. She knew that. Her conversational skills were not the best, no amount of theoretical knowledge of a subject will make up for actual practice. And she didn’t get a lot of that growing up, how could she when all her peers were older and looked down on her?
But she had a habit of being even worse at holding her tongue when John was around. This had always been the case, ever since she was old enough to realize that she liked boys and John Shen was a very handsome one.
In short, he made her stupid.
“You’ve got time, kid.”
It stung even more because he framed it like friendly encouragement. She didn’t need that from him of all people. It made her want to prove herself, show him that she wasn’t a sheltered little girl—much. That was her modus operandi ; she was constantly looking for approval. For a nod or a word of praise. Some recognition that she was doing a good job.
“I—I’m not inexperienced ,” she blurted.
“Whoa.” John took a quick step back. “Yeah, not touching that with a ten-foot pole.” He chuckled, but it came out a little forced this time. “Just don’t show up pregnant, and Eileen won’t have to castrate some poor guy.”
“Not like that ,” she mumbled, unable to stop herself.
“Hmm?” The dim garage light made the look in his eyes feel a little sharp, expectant. But she was probably imagining it, or maybe her brain was shutting down from the embarrassment of being so socially awkward that she’d basically just told her attending she’s a virgin.
“It was just one kiss,” she said, half-defensive. She wondered if the chai latte had been spiked with some sort of truth serum—or if it was just John’s effect on her, making her lightheaded and way too talkative.
“Really.” There was an odd twist to his mouth, like he was trying his best not to show any amusement. But his eyes were swimming with mirth.
He probably thought she was ridiculous.
“I’m gonna stop talking now.” She demonstrated by chugging the rest of her tea.
“But it just got interesting,” he said with a chuckle, it felt a little mean too. Just a tad condescending.
“I shouldn’t have told you all of that.” She shook her head and started walking away, feeling her cheeks rise to an uncomfortably high temperature. She wouldn’t be surprised if she fainted from all the blood rushing up to her head.
“Don’t beat yourself up. I’ve got that effect on people, I’m told.”
“What?”
“I make people nervous, prone to blabbing. It’s probably because of my good looks.” He didn’t sound the least bit ironic when he said it either. Which was worse because it meant he wasn’t joking.
“Oh my god,” she said, half-laughing, half-horrified. “You’re serious.”
“I’ve got a mirror at home, y’know.”
“Unvelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head.
But when they walked into the hospital together, she’d forgotten all about the embarrassing truths she’d blurted out to him. Just… poof. Wiped from her short-term memory for a while. It wasn’t until hours later, when she finally collapsed into bed and her head hit the pillow, that the memories came flooding back with horrifying clarity.
And she realized that maybe, just maybe, he’d done that on purpose. Said something ridiculous to distract her. Which was a preposterous supposition, she knew. John Shen wasn’t the type to coddle anyone. She didn’t see why he would coddle her of all people.
Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d done it on purpose.
—
After her EM rotation, they didn’t talk much. He was still orbiting the edges of her world—casually mentioned by her mom or appearing at the hospital just as she was heading out. She’d done all her rotations (except surgery) at PTMC, after all. It was inevitable that their paths would cross every now and then. Sometimes they exchanged a nod, a polite smile. Sometimes not even that. Just a flicker of recognition before moving on with their respective lives.
He’d gotten a girlfriend not long after her EM rotation ended. She found out the way anyone who grew up with the internet would—on Instagram. The post was a little blurry and unfiltered, taken at golden hour, him smiling in that quiet, almost-smirking way he did, with a stunning brown girl leaning into his side like she belonged there. Victoria had stared at it too long.
So he liked brown girls.
The thought made her oddly giddy. And also like she was about to puke.
The woman was pretty and age-appropriate. Victoria would never look as cool and stylish and effortlessly put together as Anika Singh .
Even her name was cooler.
Not that Victoria had any right to judge John’s girlfriend. He could date whoever he wanted. She had no business caring about any of it. About him.
Victoria stalked her profile way more than she would like to admit. She was obsessed with this girl who had gotten John Shen’s attention and kept it.
Then the engagement ring pic dropped and she felt like she would actually puke. Her stomach revolted at the sight. Even more so when John reposted it on his own feed.
That might be the only picture he’d ever posted that she didn’t leave a like.
But one day, every trace of Anika Singh disappeared from John’s profile page. There was no official announcement, just a sudden erasure of couple pictures. And just as suddenly as she’d appeared on John’s page, she was wiped away, like she’d never been there at all.
They’d lasted five months. She wasn’t keeping track or anything—she was just naturally perceptive.
She had his number—he’d made her save it to her contacts list sometime during her EM rotation. Every so often, she’d stare at it, fingers hovering over the screen, thinking about sending a casual “hi (:” or a dumb meme, or literally anything. But she never did.
He could always reach out, too. She’d saved her number in his phone as “Victoria Javadi,” only to watch him quietly switch it to “Vee.” She’d asked him to change it back—no nicknames, thanks—and his answer? Calling her “Vee” whenever he wanted to get a rise out of her. And it worked, of course. She’d handed him her kryptonite, and he was only too glad to use it.
But she secretly liked it. Liked that he used it to tease her. It felt… special. Like an inside joke. A “just us” kind of thing.
So, no—there were no texts. But sometimes she liked his stories. Usually the ones with his go-to Dunkin’ order, the PTMC ER in the background. Sometimes, he liked hers too. It wasn’t a big deal. Obviously, it didn’t mean anything. But also… it kind of did. It was a quiet nod across the digital void, hey. I see you.
She’d once posted an overhead selfie by the pool—yellow bikini, dog-eared Margaret Atwood novel propped against her knees like reading literary fiction while sunbathing was how she chose to spend her free time . Which wasn’t a lie, but it also looked good on her feed.
He’d liked it.
Which, okay, could’ve meant nothing. He’d liked loads of pictures she’d posted before. Actually, he liked all of her pictures. But surely in a casual, friendly, no-big-deal double tap. But also… he’d just broken up with his girlfriend. And it was a bikini pic.
And she wasn’t thirteen anymore.
She’d double-tapped on a picture of him shirtless in return. It was taken at the lake house his family owned in Deep Creek Lake, the one she used to visit as a kid, back when their families still did summers together. His hair was damp, his chest was dappled with water droplets, and his grin was lazy—the signature John look. She dropped her “like” and scrolled past it quickly, like that would stop her from thinking about it for the rest of the day. It didn’t, but efforts were made.
But other than the occasional Instagram interaction, they didn’t speak.
She remembered the last shift of her EM rotation… it hadn’t been pretty. Victoria had gone to PTMC that day feeling like a tightly wound knot of emotions. Two patients coded. She nearly passed out at the sight of a trauma patient with multiple exposed fractures from an MVC. And, of course, Dr. Abbot had the night off, which meant John was the only attending on duty. No buffer, no escape. She couldn’t avoid him, even if she tried.
Before the night was through, she’d locked herself in the bathroom and cried. It was stupid to feel so… so raw. But she couldn’t avoid the conflicting emotions warring inside her chest. She was glad that her time in the ER would be over; she hated EM, that’s something she learned pretty quickly. But she’d learned to love the people who worked with her, and she was good at it even if she wanted to puke half the time. She liked being good at things; it made the overachiever that lived inside her extremely proud.
And she’d miss it. She would miss the stupid ER and the people who worked there and… and yeah. It was extremely stupid. She should be glad it’d be over and that’s it! No other feelings should be rearing their heads and ruining a moment of joy!
By the time goodbyes rolled around, her eyes were puffy, her nose was running, and she looked exactly like the emotional train wreck she felt like on the inside. Bridget, the night shift charge nurse, cupped Victoria’s cheeks and cooed, “Oh, don’t cry! You’ll make me cry too.”
Which, of course, had the opposite effect.
She hated crying. It always gave her a headache afterward. She could already feel it brewing behind her overworked eyes, the familiar ache that followed a long waterworks session.
John gave her a ride home that night. “It’s your last day,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “We’ve ‘known’ each other for two weeks.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “No one’s going to care that I’m giving you a ride. And if they do, well—you won’t be here Monday, so what does it matter?”
So she met him by his car, still sniffling, and he immediately panicked. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh–nothing,” she said, wiping any lingering moisture off her cheek.
“You’re crying.”
“Not anymore,” she pointed out.
“Why were you crying?”
“Stop hovering,” she said, walking around him.
“Is this some sort of boy problem ?” He sounded slightly nauseated.
“What?” She whipped her head around so fast her neck did a little crack . Which in and of itself hadn't been painful, just a pop of air, but the motion also made her brain feel like one giant wound—achy and throbbing.
“Ow,” she vocalized, bringing a hand to her temple instinctively.
John was suddenly there, hands on her face; Doctor mode on. “Where does it hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she said a little breathlessly. He was so close . She needed to look up unless she wanted to stare at his neck. Which she didn’t. But looking up at him was also Not Good, because now he was looking down at her and his mouth was right there—
“So,” he said, as cool and collected as ever, “are you gonna tell me why you’ve been crying?” He swiped his thumb across her cheek, and she was pretty sure—like, ninety-nine percent sure—there wasn’t even a tear there to wipe.
“It’s stupid,” she answered, trying to avert her gaze.
“Just tell me.”
“No.” She shook her head.
“I can bribe you with Dunkin,” he said, mock-threatening like this was a hostage negotiation.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she shot back, grinning mischievously. “I’m a Krispy Kreme girl.”
“That’s the worst thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”
And yet, ten minutes later, they were parked outside a Krispy Kreme, the box warm in her lap and his iced coffee sweating in the cup holder. He was making A Production of it—dramatic sighs, scandalized glances, fake gagging sounds every time she offered him a bite.
“Oh, stop it,” Victoria laughed, swatting his shoulder. “You’re being dramatic.”
He glared at the coffee he bought for himself. “I feel like a cheater.”
She rolled her eyes. “You think Dunkin’s going to serve you divorce papers?”
“Oh, they’ll never know,” he said, raising his cup in a solemn toast. “But I will. It’ll haunt me. I’ll lie awake thinking about how I betrayed them with this… knockoff iced coffee.”
“C’mon, you can’t judge it without giving it a fair shot first,” she said, laughing at his exasperated expression.
“Why didn’t you get something to drink?” He asked after choking on another mouthful of seemingly bad coffee.
“Oh, I’m just here for the donuts. I don’t really like the tea options they have here, and I’m told the coffee is not up to snuff either.” She stared, waiting for his reaction.
His head swiveled toward her slowly, like his joints were rusted.
“You’re telling me you knew the coffe was shit and you let me order it anyway?”
“Well, you seem very keen on your caffeine intake. I know you take coffee very seriously,” she said, barely containing her smile.
“That’s evil, Javadi.” He pointed a finger at her. “Diabolical, even.”
She was laughed, feeling light for the first time since she’d stepped foot at the hospital.
“You’ll pay for this,” he said, then took another sip and visibly recoiled. “Tastes like sweaty balls. Jesus. This is all your fault—I’ve been tricked into cheating on the love of my life for a pair of pretty brown eyes.” He scoffed, shook his head like he hadn’t just said something that irrevocably changed her life.
“Y-you think I have pretty eyes?” The words tumbled out of her mouth in one breathless, garbled heap before she could stop them.
“Yep,” he said with an easy shrug. “Very Bambi.”
She blinked. “That… doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“It is.”
“Oh—thanks.” Her stomach was doing somersaults and backflips.
“I can’t believe you took me to Krispy Kreme just so you could watch me drink shitty coffee.” He went on, totally oblivious to the chaos he’d wrecked on her system.
She needed to get her act together, unless she wanted him to realize she had a stupid big crush on him. God, she felt like a little kid.
“Correction,” she said, pointing at the steering wheel. “ You took me to Krispy Kreme. I was just the innocent passenger.”
“You missed your calling, Javadi,” he said. “Should’ve been a lawyer.”
“And miss all the blood and gore medicine has to offer?” She deadpaned.
He chuckled. Then—
“You're not crying anymore,” he pointed out. “Haven't been for a while.”
He looked very smug about it. The kind of smug that made him look even more handsome. Which should’ve been illegal after a twelve-hour shift. It was annoying. Unfair. Her brain short-circuited for a second, entertaining a completely unhinged urge to lean across the console and kiss that smirk right off his face.
Would he pull away? Would he kiss her back? Would she spontaneously combust just from imagining it?
She swallowed the thought, cleared her throat like it might clear her head too, and said, “Yeah, well, you’re pretty distracting.”
ABORT! Why had she said that?!
He smiled, looking like the cat who ate the cream.
“I mean—you’re good at making people laugh,” she rushed to say. “You could’ve been, like... a clown.”
Instant regret. Face palm.
“Wow,” John said, chuckling. “You’re just full of compliments today.”
He held his coffee loosely, half-turned toward her, one arm draped over the steering wheel in a pose that was so effortlessly cool that it made her chest hurt a little. There was something in the way he looked at her—expectant, patient—that made her feel like she was supposed to do something. Like he was waiting for her to make the next move.
So, naturally, she started babbling.
She talked about her feelings. About the tight knot in her chest, the emotional whiplash of the day, the weird cocktail of relief and sadness that her EM rotation was over. She told him how she’d felt like a mess since the start of her shift, and saying it out loud made her feel surprisingly relieved. And he listened, quiet and still, eyes soft and attentive.
“I’m sorry,” she said, somewhere in the middle of her emotional unraveling. “I’m crying again.”
John glanced down at the box in her lap, then back at her tear-streaked face. “You’ve got your Krispy Kreme donuts,” he said. “You’ll be OK.”
And she laughed. Again . He knew how to make her laugh, and that made her want to cry for an entirely different reason. No one had ever known her like this. And if she dared to trace the soft, squishy feelings blooming in her chest, they’d all lead back to the man sitting across from her.
A terrifying realization hovered just at the edge of her awareness, waiting to be acknowledged. But she wasn’t ready to look at it straight on. She tiptoed around it. Like a cat sidestepping a full bathtub—aware it’s there, but refusing to get wet.
When he pulled up in front of her house, she didn’t move right away. Just sat there, fingers curled loosely around the donut box in her lap, heart thudding in a familiar accelerated rhythm.
Saying goodbye was hard.
He remain silent, arms resting on the steering wheel. It was like he knew she needed a moment to collect herself. He’d always been good at picking up social cues, unlike her. He was smooth where she was spiky, calm where she was anything but.
After a few minutes of companioble silence, she said—
“So… I guess this is goodbye.”
“Yeah,” he smiled. “Don’t cry on me again.”
She chuckled, trying very hard to obey him. But the burning behind her eyes had already started making itself known.
“Thanks for being, like, my ER fairy godmother,” she added, trying for a joke, praying it didn’t fall flat.
John chuckled, a soft sound that made her chest ache. His eyes shimmered with fondness, and it made her throat tighten. He probably thought she was cute. Not in the way she wanted to be cute for him—just the way adults always seemed to find precocious kids charming. She knew that look well. The one that said: look at this clever little girl, how sweet .
Her headache chose that exact moment to throb back to life. It’d been quiet until now, but had definitely still been brewing on the back burner, pressing up against her retinas. She needed to go inside, peel off her scrubs, and sink into a bath long enough to forget the day existed. Maybe even splurge on a bath bomb. One of the fancy ones with dried flowers and glitter. She’d earned it.
“It was good having you around, Vee,” John said with a laid-back smirk.
“Don’t call me that,” she replied automatically, scowling like she always did, because that was the script, and sticking to the script was safer than admitting to him she liked when he called her that.
“Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”
“You too,” she said.
Then, because she knew she’d beat herself over it for the rest of her life if she didn’t, Victoria leaned across the console and kissed him on the cheek.
For a split second, he looked genuinely startled—eyes wide, lips parted—before the emotion slipped away, replaced by a cool, unreadable expression.
“Bye, John,” she said, then hurried out of his car.
That was the last time they spoke to each other.
Two years later, her mother invokes his name as if it won’t hit her like a freight train. Like it won’t send her nervous system into overdrive, memories flooding in before she can even brace for them.
“I remember,” she answered, throat dry. Maybe she should turn around, get into an Uber, and admit herself to the ER ( not at PTMC!! ) for shortness of breath and chest pain.
“Well, he’s got a spare room in his apartment and he’s agreed to let you live there temporarily,” Eileen continued, unaware of the storm breaking inside Victoria’s chest.
“I—um.”
“His mother tells me he could also benefit from having a feminine presence in his life. Smooth out his edges a little,” Eileen said offhandedly. “She wants him to get married soon. Has a list of candidates and all.”
“What.”
“And since you’re like a little sister to him, that’s the perfect arrangement,” Eileen finished with a nod, like she was self-congratulating herself for her plan. As if it wasn’t the dumbest thing Victoria has ever heard.
She couldn’t possibly live with John Shen.
It was not a good idea. She said as much.
“It’s non-negotiable. John will help you get your footing in this little foray into adult life. He’ll help you look for places. Since you won’t take our help, at least take his. We trust him to look after you.”
“Mom,” Victoria said. “The whole point of moving out is to figure things out on my own. It kind of defeats the purpose if someone’s holding my hand through all the hard parts.”
“He won’t be hovering, if that’s what you’re worried about. Like I said, your schedules don’t line up. You work days, he works nights. You’ll barely see each other.”
“Except on days off,” Victoria added.
“It would make your father and me feel better, knowing you’re not completely on your own.”
Victoria climbed the last few steps until they were face-to-face. “But that’s what I want.”
“And you will have it,” Eileen replied calmly. “In due time.”
Victoria let out a sharp scoff. “I knew something was off. You’d never make this easy for me.”
“Don’t be difficult, Victoria.”
“I’m not the one being difficult!” she snapped, volume rising with every word. Her chest felt like it was caving in under some foreign pressure, and she needed to let it out—on someone, something, anything .
“Don’t shout, Victoria,” Eileen said, eyes narrowing to razor-thin slits.
“I don’t want to live with John, I want to live by myself . I want to make mistakes and… and fuck up— ”
“ Language, ” Eileen snapped.
“—and I don’t want John reporting everything back to you, because that’s what he’ll be, right? A spy. That’s the real reason you want me living with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “You wouldn’t even let me look at boys growing up, and now you’re telling me to shack up with an unmarried man ?”
“I see we’re getting nowhere with this conversation,” her mother said coolly, voice clipped. “You’re clearly too emotional to speak rationally at the moment.”
“I’m not emotional, you’re being—”
“We’ll revisit this when you’ve had time to cool off.” Eileen smoothed an invisible wrinkle from Victoria’s sleeve, then turned on her heels and walked down the hall as if Victoria hadn’t been seconds away from calling her mother a controlling bitch.
A week after their argument, nothing had changed. No verdict had been reached, no ground given. Victoria and her mother had been locking horns daily—over breakfast, during dinner, in the living room while her dad attempted to watch a rerun of House, M.D., even in the family group chat on iMessage.
Eventually, Victoria came to the inevitable conclusion that she’d either have to negotiate with her mother or just… move out anyway.
So she chose the latter.
She found a place within walking distance of PTMC, charming and shockingly not outrageously priced. She booked a viewing, showed up in her most “I am a capable adult” blazer, and pretended she wasn’t sweating through it the whole time.
The landlord was sleazy—oily smile, wandering hands, the whole cliché. By the time the tour was over, she felt like she needed a scalding, two-hour shower just to scrape his touch off her skin.
That night, she ate dinner in her room, unable to sit across from her mother with the scoreboard reading 1–0, Eileen. But she wasn’t ready to admit defeat. Not yet.
The next place she picked was a roommate situation—not as close to PTMC as she’d hoped, but there was a T station just a short walk away.
The roommate-to-be, Gem, wasted no time laying down the law before even shaking Victoria’s hand. No bringing dates over, no pets, no loud noises, no cooking fish, no this, no that, no’s across the board. Victoria felt like she would be swapping one overseer for another.
She checked out three more places—with no luck—before she started thinking that having someone’s help wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe it’d be nice if someone else took the wheel for a while. Helped her carry a bit of the load.
Not her mom, obviously.
But now that John had been introduced into the picture (again) she couldn’t exactly not think about him. It was almost unnatural trying to keep him out of her head.
He was a capital letter Adult, with a grown-up job that made real grown-up money. And she knew that he was capable of leadership. She’d always admired how, the moment he slipped into Doctor Mode, his usual playful side faded away, replaced by the serious, no-nonsense Dr. Shen.
She knew it was a bad idea to live under the same roof as him. Her crush had stayed dormant only because she wasn’t constantly around him like she used to be two years ago. But it was her responsibility to keep her feelings in check. John wasn’t to blame for the way she felt about him.
—
Victoria found her mom in the sunroom, a little jungle of thriving plants crammed into every corner, each one thriving under Eileen’s green thumb. To most, Eileen was all sharp edges, but here—in this patch of sunlight—she softened in a way Victoria never quite saw anywhere else. Talking to her plants like they were her babies was a habit she’d picked up long before Victoria even existed, a quiet ritual that made the room feel sacred.
Eileen had fought a long battle with infertility before finally carrying Victoria to term. She was an IVF baby—a miracle stitched together from hope, science, and the tangled strands of her parents’ DNA.
But before Victoria, the plants had been Eileen’s first babies. Some of the potted specimens were older than her.
The sunroom was holy ground for her mother, the very first nursery she ever created. Maybe that’s why she was always in a good mood in it. Which was precisely the reason why Victoria chose the sunroom to serve as the backdrop for her next conversation with her mother.
“Tell John I will do it,” she said with no preamble.
Her mother turned, a lopsided smile on her face. “Oh?”
“But it’s temporary ,” Victoria added.
“Of course.” Eileen set down her watering can and stepped closer. “I’m glad you’ve come around and started to see reason.”
Victoria chose not to argue. She simply nodded, spun on her heel, and headed back to her room—a place she barely left these days.
Later, while she was at PTMC, her phone buzzed with a text notification. When she looked down at the screen, she felt her heart skip a beat.
John: roommates, eh?
Two years. He’d had her number for two whole years, and that was the first message he sent her? It managed to be lacklsuter and thrilling at the same time. Which, in turn, had her reaching for a metaphorical baseball bat to squash the butterflies in her stomach.
She’d be having none of that.
Victoria: Temporarily.
She typed, hit sent. Stuffed her phone deep into the pocket of her scrubs and purposely ignored the buzzing until she had another break. Victoria went to the bathroom, free from roaming eyes, and checked the messages. That way she wouldn’t have to explain the smile on her face when she read whatever he’d sent.
John: come take a tour of the place
John: sat 8 p.m.
John: that work for u?
Victoria’s heart pounded erratically as she typed an answer.
Victoria: Yes. Send me your address and I'll be there.
John replied almost immediately. A pin with his home address. It was in a stupidly nice area, too. Modern, sophisticated. She felt acutely aware of his financial status. When she was hunting for places for herself, she had to keep in mind the resident salary she earned, but John earned an attending paycheck. On top of that, he came from the same well-off background she did.
She knew he’d gone to private school, that his family owned a lake house, and that he’d racked up an impressive list of international trips—including a two-year sabbatical backpacking through Europe before med school.
Victoria had a trust fund, locked until she turned twenty-five, but still, there it was: three hundred grand safely stowed away to help her “start her life” with a cushion. She’d never asked, but she’d always assumed John was a trust fund kid too.
On Saturday, she slipped into her nicest midi dress, smoothed down her hair with a flat iron, and added just a touch of mascara and lip gloss. Then she Ubered to John’s place.
He opened the door, and the scent of his cologne washed over her—clean, woodsy, and familiar. It took her straight back to her EM rotation: the subtle whiff of it when he leaned over to say something, or those quiet moments by his car, side by side with matching Dunkin’ cups, talking about everything and nothing.
It smelled like good memories.
“Hi, stranger.” John’s got his signature grin in place.
“Hi,” she said weakly.
She stepped inside, then his hand was between her shoulder blades—warm, familiar. And he started steering her toward the leaving room, not before she kicked off her shoes first. It’s easy to fall back under his influence.
It felt like coming home.
The apartment was pretty much what she expected—moderately sized, minimal decor, open-concept with an airy kitchen framed by big windows. The living room is roomy enough, dominated by a La-Z-Boy recliner that looks like the priciest piece of furniture he owned. Aside from that, there’s a plasma TV and a PS5, probably the only other contenders for the “most expensive” title in this place.
It was pretty barebones—but not in a bad way. She’d have cringed if it were a full-blown “man cave,” complete with beer posters, framed jerseys, and shelves lined with action figures. But that wasn’t John’s vibe. The only bookshelf in the room sagged under the weight of dense medical texts, each one more intimidating than the last. No frills, no fluff—just function. So very him.
“It’s nice,” she commented.
“Thanks. Ma said you’d hate it,” he said with an amused smile.
“There’s room for improvement.”
John lets out a laugh. “C’mon, princess. I’ll show you to your room.”
Princess .
She liked that. A lot.
Her room looked like an afterthought. A maybe guest room, never quite committed to. The walls were an uninspired shade of vanilla, the furniture clean but impersonal, as if it had been chosen from a catalog with no one in particular in mind. No rug, either. Just bare wood floors that made everything echo a little too much.
“I’m sorry about the twin bed,” he said.
Victoria hadn’t even registered it until he pointed it out. Tucked under the far window: a narrow frame, a cream duvet folded with hospital corners, and one lonely pillow sitting against a tufted headboard trying its best to seem inviting.
“It’s fine,” she said, and meant it.
“We can get you a bigger bed,” he insisted.
“I really don’t mind,” she replied, resting a hand on his forearm without thinking.
They both froze. Just for a beat. Then she pulled back quickly, cleared her throat like she could erase the moment with sound.
“As long as it’s not my parents’ house,” she added, forcing a smile. “You could put me in a closet and I’d still think it was perfect.”
He smirked. “And you say I’m dramatic.”
“I’m twenty-two. I get to be dramatic,” she shot back, giving him a look. “You have no excuse.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A bit ageist, aren’t you?”
“Not really. You’re just sensitive about being in your thirties.”
“Early thirties,” he said. “You know what? You just talked yourself out of your housewarming gift.”
She whipped around. “There’s a gift?”
He smiled, slow and mischievous, which made her stomach do cartwheels.
“There was a gift,” he said, voice full of mock regret. “But unless you start listing all my amazing qualities sometime in the next ten seconds, it’s staying a mystery.”
“Oh, sure. And let your ego swell to the point you can’t fit through the door?”
“That’s it,” he said, pivoting dramatically. “Gift revoked.”
She laughed and caught his arm with both hands before he could take a full step away.
“Come on ,” she said, dragging out the words like a kid begging for dessert after being told no. “Just give me the gift. And also— housewarming? Really? This is your apartment. You’ve lived here for, what, five years?”
He shrugged. “What are you, the gift police?”
“I’m just saying, that’s not how housewarming gifts work.”
“Okay, Einstein,” he said, raising a brow. “Are you planning to keep talking yourself out of a gift, or can I go get it now?”
She laughed, and just like that, it was like a string had been cut—like she was a hot air balloon drifting up into the sky. Being around John always did that to her. Made her feel things she didn’t have names for. Mostly, it felt like slipping into a pool on the hottest day of the year, or being a feather caught on a breeze. Just… light. Effortless. Like for once, nothing was weighing her down.
“Fine,” she said, smiling broadly.
He disappeared into his room and came back holding a Loewe bag.
Her jaw went slack. Whatever he’d gotten her, it definitely wasn’t some last-minute trinket from a pharmacy checkout line. Which, for the record, she would’ve been totally fine with.
“John,” she said, blinking at the sleek logo like it might disappear if she stared too hard. “You really shouldn’t have.”
He handed her the bag with a shrug, maddeningly unbothered. “Well, I did.”
She took the proffered bag with a dramatic sigh, like accepting a gift was some great burden. Inside, nestled in crisp tissue paper, was a blue box. She reached for it, brows lifted in curiosity.
John watched her with his hands on his hips in full dad-pose.
“Well?” he said, nodding toward the box. “Open it.”
“Stop bossing me.”
He raised both hands in mock surrender.
She lifted the lid and found a candle nestled inside, cradled in a pink ceramic holder that was somehow both delicate and sturdy. She brought it to her nose and inhaled. Ivy and something woodsy—fresh, green, like rain-soaked leaves and moss-covered tree bark. Instantly, she was transported somewhere else. Late summer evenings at the lake house, the sky still light at nine, that quiet ache of knowing it would all be over soon brewing like mint chai tea in her chest. The bittersweetness of it all.
When she looked up, John was watching her.
“I love it,” she said softly. “I really do.”
“You told me once you liked scented candles.”
With just a few words, he made her feel as though she was falling from a great height. She’d once told McKay that Mateo was a human Utah because of breathless and lightheaded she got around him. Well, John made her feel that multiplied by ten. If Mateo was Utah, John was Everest.
“Did I? I don’t even remember.” It was honestly a miracle she hadn’t passed out from the lack of oxygen entering her lungs.
“I do,” he said.
She drew in a sharp breath. His eyes held an unfamiliar glint, some feeling she could almost recognize lurking in its depths.
Blinking, she let her gaze drop to the candle in her hands, willing her brain to stop coming up with crazy theories about John’s supposed feelings toward her.
“I feel bad I didn’t get you anything.”
“Buy me a Dunkin’ and we’ll call it even.”
“You’re still drinking that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose in exaggerated horror. “I thought Krispy Kreme came in and rocked your world.”
“No way. Nothing beats Dunkin’ iced coffee.”
“Did your relationship survive the whole cheating ordeal?”
“True love survives even the worst betrayals,” he said with a crooked grin—and God help her, sometimes he was so handsome it actually hurt to look at him.
Victoria laughed, a little too loud, a nervous giggle slipping out.
“You don’t believe me?”
“That’s an interesting way to describe a caffeine addiction, Dr. Shen.”
His smile flickered, eyes darkening, suddenly harder to read. He cleared his throat and looked away, avoiding her gaze like it was a live wire.
“I’ll let you unpack in peace,” he said, voice a little tighter than before.
“Wait—sorry, did I say something...?”
“What?” He turned back, brows furrowed. “Why would you think that?”
“You just got... weird after my joke.”
He let out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, you didn’t offend me. It’s actually… kind of the opposite.”
Just like that, the air between them thickened—charged with something unspoken. Like maybe she wasn’t the only one trying not to lose her footing on shaky ground.
“What?” she asked, but he was already stepping back.
“I’ll leave you to it, Javadi.” He nodded toward her suitcase, then turned on his heel and disappeared into his room, this time closing the door behind him.
Victoria stayed frozen in place, as if the slightest movement might snap the fragile thread of whatever had just passed between them. Her thoughts ricocheted inside her skull like pinballs. Loud, fast, and chaotic.
She was certain she’d missed something—a crucial piece of the puzzle—but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.
__
John was a good roommate. He cleaned up after himself, cooked enough food for two without a hint of complaint, and carefully stored the leftovers in Tupperware containers he left on the fridge, each topped with a little “ for Vee ” post-it. Sometimes there’d be a Dunkin’ cup, too, sporting the same sticky note. Other times, a tiny message: “ have a nice one, ” “ fuel for the busiest brain I know ,” or “ keep calm and chai on. ”
Every time she saw those notes, her chest tightened in a way she couldn’t quite explain. Like someone had thumped on her solar plexus, or maybe like a string was tied around her fourth rib, pulling gently at random moments, reminding her of the feelings she was trying to keep buried.
It was difficult, though. Especially when he pulled stunts like the little notes, or when she walked in to find fresh flowers sitting in the very vase she’d bought with his money for the console table by the door.
Unfortunately, her mother hadn’t been wrong when she said they would barely see each other. Which felt surreal considering they now shared a roof.
On his days off, she’d come home from the hospital, and he’d look up from the couch with that easy, half-smile, drop a casual “Hey, Vee,” and something warm and sticky would rear its head inside her chest.
A feeling of belonging . Of being home.
Which was ridiculous, because this was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. The whole reason she’d moved out of her parents’ house was to figure out how to be a grown-up all on her own.
John was supposed to be helping her. Guiding her into responsible adulthood, or at least nudging her toward some version of independence. But more often than not, he felt less like a mentor and more like an enabler.
He cooked their meals without making a fuss, hired a cleaning service that came during the day (some unseen fairy godmother who folded her sheets with military precision and left her bathroom smelling like lemongrass), and paid the bills before she even remembered they existed. Even when she offered to help, tagging along for groceries or hovering near the sink with good intentions, it all somehow still landed squarely in the category of John handling it .
It was frustrating, sure. But also kind of… wonderful.
She didn’t stress about the little things the way she used to, because somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew John would take care of it. And he didn’t make her feel bad about it.
When she lived with her parents, things got done, yes, but always with this faint undercurrent of judgment. Like every chore she didn’t know how to do was somehow her fault, even though no one had ever taught her how to do it. With John, there were no sighs, no pointed looks, no running tally of her shortcomings. Just folded laundry and dinner on the stove and the relief of not being made to feel small.
When she was twelve, she’d tried to load the dishwasher by herself, hoping to surprise her mother with her good deed. One of the plates ended up slipping from her hand (slick porcelain and wet hands are not a good combination), and shattered against the tile. When her mother found out she’d screamed at her in that sharp, slicing way that made her feel like her very existence was a problem to be solved.
“If you can’t do it right, don’t do it at all!” she’d shouted, and Victoria had fled the kitchen, blinking back tears.
The memory came rushing back when she accidentally chipped John’s UPenn mug while rinsing it in the sink. Her stomach had dropped. The kind of guilt that bypasses logic and goes straight to your bloodstream.
She sat on the couch waiting for him, the mug placed on the coffee table in front of her like evidence, her hands clammy and clenched in her lap, sinuses burning from the effort of holding back tears.
When John walked in, still in his wrinkled scrubs, his bag slung over one shoulder, he gave her a tired but easy smile. “Hey, there. Thought you’d be at the hospital by now.”
She’d called in sick. Not a total lie—her stomach had been in knots, coiled with anxiety over how to tell him. She couldn’t imagine walking out the door without owning up to it first, without seeing the disappointment in his face and knowing she’d caused it.
She held the mug out to him, hands shaking, her lower lip doing that humiliating quiver she couldn’t seem to stop.
“I—I broke it,” she said, the words catching in her throat like something sharp.
John’s brow furrowed as he looked at her, then down at the mug. His expression tightened and her heart dropped straight through the floor.
Of course he was mad. He was going to kick her out. Why wouldn’t he? Who wanted to live with someone who couldn’t even wash a mug without breaking it? Someone who messed up and cried about it like a child.
“Victoria,” he said slowly, voice eerily calm. Like the stillness of the ocean right before a wave rears up on the horizon. “Why are you crying?”
“I—I’m sorry,” she sniffed, wiping at her face with her hands. “I feel s-so stupid.”
“What the fuck?” He dropped his bag with a thud, eyes wide. “Is this about the mug ?”
She sucked in a ragged breath, her lungs struggling to get air into them.
“Victoria, I don’t care about that,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Hey—hey, look at me.”
He crouched in front of her, his hands warm and steady on her shoulders, grounding her like an anchor.
“Stop crying,” he said softly. “It’s okay. Did you really think I’d be mad at you?”
She nodded, lips trembling, too full of shame and leftover panic to speak.
“Oh, Vee,” he murmured, and there was something almost heartbreakingly tender in the way he said it. “I could never be mad at you.”
“B-but it’s your favorite mug,” she cried, her voice cracking as she buried her face in his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his scrubs.
He didn’t push her away, nor did he flinch at her suddenly latching onto him. Just wrapped one arm around her and cupped the back of her head with the other, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against her scalp that did wonders to pacify her nerves.
“The chipped lip just gives it character.”
Impossibly, she let out a laugh—wet and shaky—mixed with the tears still streaming down her face.
“C’mon, princess,” he urged gently, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “I hate to see you cry.”
She calmed down enough to realize their faces were really close to each other. She could smell the caffeine in his breath, as sure as he could probably smell peppermint in hers. His eyes roamed over her face like he was watching over something precious, frail—and she couldn’t bear that look on his face. Like she was someone he needed to handle with kid gloves.
“I’m good now,” she said, voice thick.
John’s hands slowly let go of her. And it felt like being asea on a boat with no oars, the shoreline growing smaller in the horizon.
–
On the days their schedules aligned and they were both home, John would sit beside her on the couch and help her scroll through Zillow listings as if the mere sight of him using the touchpad didn’t feel like watching someone rake their nails down a chalkboard.
She kept forgetting that this was the whole point of her being there. That this, living with John, was a pit stop. Of course he’d want her settled somewhere else sooner rather than later.
She was ruining his bachelor lifestyle. Messing up the feng shui of his perfectly curated, adult-man apartment with her general anxious energy and tendency to cry over chipped mugs.
Whether he was afraid he’d shock her or he was genuinely living like a monk, she wasn’t sure. But there was never any evidence of anyone else in their apartment. No alien pair of shoes by the door, no misplaced underwear in the laundry pile, etc.
He didn’t bring people over and he didn’t go out much. Most nights off, he stayed in, cozying up beside her on the couch with his laptop, splitting takeout straight from the containers, or watching TV while she read with her legs tucked under her.
Sometimes he’d camp out in the living room for hours, the volume on the TV turned down low, playing video games until sleep finally snuck up on him. He never said it outright, but she knew he had trouble sleeping on his nights off. She’d lie on the other end of the couch, pretending to read or scroll through her phone or nap, listening to the soft click of the controller and the occasional sigh of frustration when he got stuck on a level.
And on those quiet nights, she’d feel a strange sort of satiation. Warm and fuzzy, like a purring kitten after having a bowl of warm milk. She’d look at him and try not to show how happy she was that he was there, in the same room as her, within reach. Not out somewhere she couldn’t follow, not off living a life that didn’t include her stealing looks of him on the periphery of his vision.
Here, in this secluded corner of the world they inhabited at the same time, she could pretend she wasn’t tracing the curve of his jaw with her eyes. Tell herself that wondering about the texture of his stubble and how it’d feel to touch it didn’t mean anything. Even if it absolutely did.
Every so often, she’d stand up, go to the kitchen, and bring him a sandwich (usually a BLT or egg salad, both recipes he’d taught her with an astounding amount of patience), or hand him an ice cold can of Sprite. He’d look up, smile like she’d handed him the cure for cancer, and say, “You spoil me.”
As if it wasn’t him who paid all the house expenses and more.
Still, it made her chest feel warm and buzzy, like she’d swallowed a sparkler. She’d sink onto the couch next to him afterward, riding the high of being praised for something she’d done right.
John wasn’t stingy with his praise, he handed it out easily, like napkins or water or extra blankets on a cold night. He’d toss out a nice dress about something she’d owned since high school, or a looking good today, Javadi when he caught her swallowing a burnt toast on her way out the door, bleary-eyed and half-awake for her shift as he returned from his.
He never made a big deal of it. But she always felt like it was a big deal.
She didn’t think she’d ever get used to it. Or stop craving it.
Sometimes, she’d fall asleep curled up on the couch, lulled by the hum of the TV and the comfort of just existing near him. And in the morning, she’d wake up in her bed, blanket tucked around her.
She never asked how she got there, and he never brought it up. But every time it happened, she’d smile into her pillow and will her heart to stop jackrabbiting in her chest.
Once or twice, he went out with friends. He’d come back a few hours later smelling faintly of beer (not drunk, though) his cheeks flushed from laughter or the IPA, maybe both.
And when he caught sight of her curled up on the couch, clearly pretending she hadn’t been half-listening for the sound of the door all night, he’d flash that crooked grin and say, “Waited up for me, Vee?”
She’d roll her eyes, keeping them fixed on whatever she was pretending to be very absorbed in—her book, her notes, a half-written journal entry.
“You wish,” she’d reply, perfectly dry.
But inside, her heart was beating to the rhythm of he’s here, he’s home .
And he’d chuckle, low and easy, whistling to himself as he disappeared into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.
—
She mentioned, almost offhandedly, that she was thinking of getting a few things for her room, just to make it feel a little more like hers. So naturally, John drove them straight to West Elm and handed her a platinum Amex like it wasn’t an absurd thing for him to do.
He wasn’t her father, and he definitely wasn’t her boyfriend .
“Buy whatever you want,” he said.
“No. I can buy my own stuff.”
“You’d be doing me a favor. C’mon, I suck at decorating.”
She bit her lip, hesitating. He was watching her with that same maddeningly calm confidence he always wore, like nothing in the world could rattle him.
Her cheeks felt hot. She felt dizzy from the way he was looking at her, from how casual he was about something that felt—well, not casual at all. Something dangerously close to domestic. Something that couples did.
“Okay,” she murmured, taking the proffered card.
“Good girl,” he said, so casually it might’ve been a throwaway comment.
But it landed in her chest like a meteor, wrecking havoc in her nervous system.
“You—” she cleared her throat, suddenly very aware of the blood rushing in her veins, the heart beating in her chest. “You probably shouldn’t say things like that to me.”
It came out wobbly, unsure, like she was asking him a question instead of imposing a boundary. She felt like a baby deer in the middle of a forest clearing, blinking up at a wolf who hadn’t decided whether he’d make her his next meal or if he’d leave her alone.
“Why not?” he asked, one eyebrow arched.
“It’s not exactly appropriate.”
“I don’t know why it wouldn’t be.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, Dr. Shen.”
That did something to his expression—something subtle and sharp. His eyes took on a dangerous gleam, the kind that made her feel like she was standing too close to the edge of something she couldn’t name.
“You shouldn’t call me that outside the hospital,” he said, voice low. “Since we’re suddenly keeping track of all the inappropriate things we say to each other.”
Victoria felt her throat closing up, not out of fear but something that had no place showing its face now. Something that was meant to come out only in the darkness of her room at night, when she was alone with her thoughts and could let her imagination run wild.
Maybe he sensed she had run out of words—or that her blood was about to boil (her cheeks definitely felt like they were on fire)—because he gave a soft tsk, hands landing gently on her shoulders. Turning her toward a display of soft, luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets, he whispered right by her ear, “C’mon, Javadi. Go spend my money.”
By the third time she put something back on the shelf after checking the price—her face all scrunched up in offended disbelief, courtesy of her newly sobering residency paycheck—John finally stepped in.
He frowned, caught her hand mid-return, and said with that firm-but-gentle tone that made her stomach flip: “Grab whatever you want.”
“Some things are just too expensive,” she protested.
“Let’s just say you’re not going to bankrupt me because you wanted to buy a—” he leaned in to check the tag, squinting dramatically, “—two-hundred-dollar blanket.”
“It’s a little more than that,” she pointed out.
“Honestly doesn’t make a difference.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, but he was already steering the cart forward like the debate was over. Which, apparently, it was.
Still, he couldn’t talk her into upgrading to a bigger bed. When they reached the showrooms, he flopped onto a queen-sized bed draped in a blush-pink toile duvet, arms and legs splayed without a shred of shame.
“This could be yours,” he said, grinning. “Look at all this legroom.”
“I’m fine with the twin,” she said, adjusting a pillow. “I don’t need a bigger bed. It’s not like I’m sharing it with someone,” she meant it as a lighthearted comment—a joke, even! But the silence that followed was loaded with an undecipherable emotion.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat after an unusually long stretch of silence (rare for him), “you’re free to share it. If you want. The bed. With someone. I mean—you can date. Or whatever.”
She turned away so fast she almost gave herself whiplash. “ Please stop talking.”
“I’m just saying,” he went on, ignoring her plea. “You can bring people over. As long as I’m not home. And they’re not standing in my kitchen when I walk in after a twelve-hour shift.”
He shrugged, too casually, but the gesture looked stiffer than it probably should. Like he’d aimed for cool nonchalance and missed the mark by a smidge.
“I’m not having this conversation. Now or ever.” She held up a hand, palm up, like her mother used to do to her when she spoke out of turn.
“Stop being a baby, Javadi,” John said, sounding uncharacteristically annoyed with her. “Talking about sex is not going to kill you.”
Her eyes widened. Over the years, Victoria had fine-tuned a highly efficient flight instinct, one that kicked in any time a situation got even mildly uncomfortable. And this? This was a textbook STMVR— Situations That Make Victoria Run .
She started to turn, toward the sanctuary of the curtain aisle, but John caught her arm before she could make her escape.
“You’re acting like it’s some taboo subject,” he said; smirk firmly in place. “Aren’t you Gen Z? Didn’t you all grow up with easy access to porn?”
“ John! ” she hissed, whipping around to check if anyone had heard. Thankfully, it was just the two of them in this particular section of the store.
He let out a low chuckle. It came out sharp, skirting on mean territory. The kind of mean she remembered him being when they were younger. When he got saddled with babysitting duty while the adults went off to ski or sail or do whatever else “the kids” weren’t invited to. Back then, she’d been the awkward little girl trailing after him, convinced that if she just tried hard enough, the good-looking older boy might want to be her friend. Even if he was a little rude sometimes.
“You want to be taken seriously as an adult,” he said, “but I can’t even hint at sex without making you get that deer-in-headlights look on your face.”
She yanked her arm out of his grasp, heat prickling up her neck and taking a permanent residence in her cheeks.
“You’re being openly antagonistic.”
“Ugly truths are called that for a reason, Javadi,” he said, voice flat. “They’re not exactly nice to hear.”
“I don’t like you like this.”
“Like what?” he asked, all faux innocence.
“Like you’re picking a fight with me,” she said quietly. “I don’t know when this conversation went sideways, but… I’d really like it if we could go back to just being nice to each other.”
That seemed to knock the wind out of him a little.
“I’m always nice to you, Vee.”
“Not right now, you’re not,” she said, matter-of-fact.
He sighed, visibly softening. Reached out and laid a hand on her arm, thumb moving in slow, apologetic circles. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was being a dick.”
“Well, you said it. Not me.”
“Brat,” he said, but there was no heat in it. Instead it came out playfully. Flirty, even.
As ridiculous as that might sound.
A frisson of electricity zipped down her spine. She was going to have to start a list. A very official document titled Words John Shen Is Not Allowed to Call Victoria Javadi For The Sake of Her Mental Health (Working Draft) , preferably laminated and slapped onto the fridge with one of his ancient college magnets.
So far: brat , baby, good girl , and all its variants.
“Are you sure about the bed?”
She had to pause and mentally rewind the last five minutes of conversation before she figured out what he was talking about. John Shen had this uncanny ability to slow her brain to a crawl, like someone had poured molasses into her neural pathways.
She blamed the stupid crush. And all the deeply humiliating side effects that came with it. For instance, how her entire nervous system seemed to go into standby mode whenever he stood too close or gave her That Look. The one that reminded her of how her college roommate used to look at her pet hamster. Fond. Protective. Mildly amused. Like she was something small and helpless that can’t function properly by itself.
“Yeah. Yes,” she said, shaking off the sluggishness in her brain—or trying to.
“For real?”
“Yes, John,” she said, trying not to sound exasperated. “I don’t need a bigger bed.”
He hmmphed , rolled his shoulders in a shrug, and said, “Alright.”
“Can we go look at the lamps now?”
John tipped an imaginary hat. “Lead the way, princess.”
She sighed. How could she have forgotten that one?
Words John Shen Is Not Allowed to Call Victoria Javadi For The Sake of Her Mental Health (Working Draft):
-brat
-baby
-good girl
-princess!!!
—
Victoria found herself deeply grateful for every throw pillow she’d fluffed and every fake fern she’d artfully positioned to make the apartment look vaguely Pinterest-worthy, because, naturally, the very next week her mother decided to announce an impromptu visit.
And she was bringing John’s mother with her.
Because why not turn a perfectly good Saturday (one of her days off, no less) into a high-stakes, heart-palpitating, stress-inducing event.
She still didn’t have the culinary skills to whip up a homemade meal without setting off the smoke detector, but she did know a great takeout place she and John ordered from religiously. Plus, there was that adorable patisserie down the block, whose owner had actually studied and lived in France for five years, so the éclairs were the real deal and the macaroons didn’t taste like sad, colorful air.
John frowned the second she walked through the door, arms overflowing with takeout bags, but he still crossed the room and relieved her of all of them without a word. She steered him toward the kitchen, where he set it all down on their granite countertops.
“You shouldn’t have bought all this,” he said in a slightly reprimanding tone.
She ignored him, heading straight for the cabinet and pulling out one of the new casserole dishes they’d bought on their last Macy’s run.
( We need this, John. We cannot keep microwaving food on dinner plates like animals. )
“How much was all this?”
Victoria shot him a look. “That’s a rude question.”
“You should’ve at least taken my card.”
She rolled her eyes, scooping food from the takeout containers into the casserole dish—a solid, beautiful Le Creuset piece that she’d been eyeing for a good while before John made her get it. And paid for it, naturally. Like he did with most things. Who was she kidding? He paid for everything .
Which was the reason why she wanted to do this with her own money.
“I don’t need you footing the bill for everything, John. We’re par— roommates , remember? I can pay for some things, too.”
John took the takeout boxes and threw them in the trash while she reached for another Le Creuset piece, a pink flower-shaped serving platter, to artfully set up the éclairs and macaroons .
“I’m the one with the attending paycheck, though.”
“Congratulations,” she deadpanned.
“I don’t mind paying.”
“Well, I do.” She turned to face him, bracing her hands on the counter behind her. “John, sometimes I feel like a leech. It’s the same way I felt living at my parents’ place—and that’s why I left. I don’t want to feel like I need someone to take care of me. I don’t want to be someone who needs that.”
“Jesus, Victoria, you’re not a leech.” John’s brows pulled together like she’d just suggested they tango naked in front of both their mothers. “For someone so smart, you really say some spectacularly dumb things sometimes.”
She reeled back. “Okay, rude. ”
“You literally just called yourself a leech,” he said, throwing his hands in the air like the conversation had personally offended his entire bloodline.
“I said I feel like one sometimes!”
“Oh, semantics , Victoria.”
“Well, you’re not being very accommodating of my feelings right now.” She lifted her chin, the picture of righteous Gen Z indignation—equal parts earnest and bratty.
“Not when you’re putting yourself down, no.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, looking maddeningly composed while she felt like a cat with its hackles raised.
“I just want to feel useful. Like I’m someone who can take care of herself—and maybe even someone else, someday.” Her voice dipped as she looked down at the food she’d bougth, all neatly transferred into the pretty ceramic dishes. “Doing this... it’s not even about them . It’s about me trying to prove to myself that I can.”
She lifted her eyes to his, holding his gaze when she said: “I know I’ve been spoiled,” she said, voice steady. “I just don’t want to stay that way.”
John’s expression softened, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with condescension. “There’s nothing wrong with being spoiled, Vee.”
It was the tone more than the words that got to her; like he was talking to a kid who swore she could count to ten but always got stuck at four. Like he knew better. Like her bones were made of blown glass and he was afraid that one wrong word might shatter her into a million little pieces. It was dripping with saccharine patronization, and she wanted to claw out his throat just for that.
“I don’t want to be a spoiled little girl forever, John. It’s not cute.”
He gave one of his butter-melting smirks, perhaps knowing the effect they had on her—which was a low blow , even for him. “Well, I wouldn’t mind if you were, Vee.”
She had enough fiery indignation left in her chest to come up with a sharp comeback. “It’s not your decision, is it?”
John hmphed, seemingly unperturbed by her attempt to glare at him. “Ever heard of love languages, Javadi?” He raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but went on without waiting for an answer. “Turns out, I like it when you take my money for stuff. Makes me feel useful. Funny, right? You were just going on about how you want to feel useful yourself.”
“It’s not the same.” She shook her head, feeling slightly dizzy at the mention of the L word—thrown so casually into the conversation as if it wasn’t replaying itself on a loop inside her head now.
“It is .” He gestured to the dinner spread between them on the kitchen island. “I’m glad getting all this made you happy. But you keeping me out of it made me feel like I’ve failed to take care of you. Which doesn’t feel very nice.”
“I don’t want to be taken care of, John!” She threw her hands up, frustration spilling out. “You’re not my… my dad !”
His lips pressed into a thin line. “No, I’m not.”
“And—and I don’t need you treating me like I’m some clueless, helpless mess!”
“I’m not your mother either, Victoria.”
It felt like being slapped. Or shaken until her teeth rattled. Or having lemon juice poured over an open wound. She could only stare at him, mouth open—speechless.
“I’m sorry you feel like you have to prove yourself just to be taken seriously, Victoria. Or to be loved, for that matter.”
“That’s mean , John,” she said, voice shaky.
“Ugly truths, Javadi.” He gave a humorless smile. “Told you they’re not nice to hear.”
She swiped at a stray tear with the back of her hand, her jaw clenched. For the first time in her life, she felt like she could hate him.
“Fuck you for making me cry.”
“You’re not angry at me,” he replied calmly, as if he could tell her emotional landscape better than herself.
The audacity of men.
Victoria grabbed one of the macaroons from the serving plate and hurled it at his head. “DON’T TELL ME HOW I FEEL!”
It hit him dead center in the forehead. The look on his face (stunned, vaguely betrayed, like someone had just insulted his favorite football team) might’ve been funny if she hadn’t been seeing red. If she weren’t actively debating whether she could get away with launching the entire tray at him next.
But before she could reach that level of domestic warfare, the doorbell rang.
John was still staring at her like she’d just run over his childhood dog, and she was still vibrating with enough rage to power a small city. But they had to show a united front to their mothers, for their own sake.
“Play nice,” she said through gritted teeth.
“ You threw food at me !”
“Be glad it was only food,” she hissed.
His jaw tensed, working like he was grinding down words he didn’t want to say. She watched him closely, irritation simmering beneath the surface.
“Go ahead,” she said, lifting her chin in defiance. “Say whatever it is you’re dying to. I’m a big girl—I can take it.”
John’s eyes flashed dangerously, and suddenly the air between them felt charged. She knew, instinctively, that whatever he was about to say would shift something between them.
“You really don’t want me to say it,” he said quietly.
Victoria’s breath caught. Her pulse quickened. But still, she held her ground.
“Try me.”
“You are a spoiled little girl, Victoria,” he began, eyes narrowing, voice going more and more gravely and he went on. “And sometimes spoiled little girls need to be spanked. Y’know, so they’re not insufferable little brats.”
Her breath hitched. Whatever space had been between them was gone, both physical and metaphorical. He’d crossed the invisible line, the one she’d drawn in her head a hundred times over. Stepped right over it in his expensive Adidas, smudging the line in the sand with all the casual arrogance of someone who’d never fully respected it in the first place.
Every nerve ending in her body buzzed with heat and want. It pooled in her chest, her fingertips, her knees. It turned her bones into lead, gave a lethargic quality to her limbs, like she couldn’t keep herself upright without help. Without his help. It told her to reach for him. To press her palms to his shoulders. To let him take her in his arms and—
DING DONG.
John’s eyes squeezed shut. “Shit.”
“I—I’m gonna…” Her mouth was dry, her voice barely a whisper.
He nodded, already stepping back, scrubbing a hand over his face like trying to erase what had just happened. “Yeah. Go. I’ll be right there.”
She turned on wobbly knees, one hand trailing along the wall for balance, like the ground had suddenly turned to jelly.
This was, objectively, the worst timing in the history of bad timing.
Because all she could think about was John. John, and the heat in his eyes when he closed the distance between them. When he said those things to her face. He’d been right there . Almost chest to chest. One tilt of her chin, one brave little stretch onto her toes, and she could’ve kissed him. Just like that.
She opened the door with the flimsiest smile on Earth.
“Hi, mom. Aunt Mae.”
Her mother gave her the usual once-over, sharp and slightly judgemental. In one hand, she held a tiny succulent—a peace offering, maybe. Aunt Mae stood beside her with a gift-wrapped box and a warm expression, she had the same convivial nature as her son. She was still mad at him, but she was mature enough to recognize he was pretty outgoing and (ugh) nice when he wanted to be.
“What’s that smell?” her mother wrinkled her nose.
“Oh, it’s probably the takeout I grabbed from—”
“Chef Rehman’s bringing us dinner. He must be nearly here.”
Victoria’s fragile smile slipped even further. “But I said I’d handle the food.”
“Well, I figured Chef Rehman’s cooking would be better than whatever you managed.” Eileen’s smile was tight, almost sharp. “Aren’t you going to invite us in, Victoria?”
“Oh, Eileen, give the girl a minute,” Aunt Mae said in a gently chiding tone. “You didn’t even let her invite us in before you started telling her to do it.”
“Go on, then.” Eileen nodded toward Victoria.
Taking a step to the side, Victoria opened the door wider and said, “Please, come in.”
John wandered into the living room a few minutes later, his hair slightly damp and the material on the collar of his shirt slightly darker, like he’d just splashed water on his face and some of it ran down his neck. His mother stood the second she saw him and squeezed his cheeks with both hands like he was a child again.
He didn’t fight it. Just smiled and let himself be manhandled before sinking into his usual spot on the recliner. Aunt Mae passed him the box she’d brought, and he started to unwrap it with casual curiosity.
“It’s just a little something to make your apartment feel warmer,” she said with a hopeful smile, giving him a small nod like she was waiting for approval.
Eileen, not to be outdone, placed the succulent down on the coffee table with the ceremoniousness of a judge delivering a sentence. “It doesn’t need much water,” she announced. “So try not to kill it, Victoria.”
“Thank you, Mom,” Victoria said tightly, her tone as composed as she could make it. Her eyes darted upward on instinct, always looking for John when he was in the room, like a compass finding north.
For a brief second, his expression cracked. Just the tiniest twitch before he pasted on a smile, but she saw it. Annoyance. Maybe even anger.
She wondered who was the recipient of that sentiment. It could very well be Victoria for all she knew. They had just been about to… Something almost happened at the kitchen.
John finished unwrapping his mother’s gift and let out a quiet, amused breath as he looked down into the box. “I’m not much of a tea person, but I know Vee is.”
Aunt Mae chuckled. “Yes, well, I suppose it’s more for her than you. But it’s a nice set, and it’ll look lovely on display even if it never gets used.”
Victoria’s cheeks warmed, and she pretended to straighten the throw pillows as a distraction. Something about the way he’d said Vee —so casually affectionate, so theirs —made her stomach flutter and her heartbeat trip over itself.
She really had to root this softness out of her chest before it caused any more damage. It wasn’t good for her. John Shen was like a virus. She’d caught it once, thought she’d gotten cured, maybe even immune. But here he was again, slipping into her bloodstream, confusing her nervous system, giving her heart a completely unnecessary workout. It was slow-burn emotional torture and she couldn’t keep doing this to herself.
It had to end at some point. Hopefully soon.
The buzzer rang again, cutting her line of thought prematurely.
“That’ll be Rehman with our food,” Eileen announced breezily.
John frowned, then he glanced over at Victoria, who was trying to melt into the couch cushions like she was trying to fuse with the upholstery.
“Victoria took care of dinner,” he said evenly.
“Well,” Eileen said with a dismissive wave, “Chef Rehman’s food is likely better than whatever she put together. Victoria, you know I’m right.”
John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp. “She actually went out of her way to get everything ready for today.”
Eileen blinked, visibly surprised by the edge in his voice. “I’m sure she did,” she said, adjusting her shawl. “I’m only saying we might as well eat something nice while we catch up.”
“The food she bought is nice. We get it all the time, don’t we, Vee?” John said, his voice deliberately light but firm underneath.
Victoria looked at him, then at her mother.
It would be easier to just nod, to let her mother take over the way she always did. Less arguing, less tension. A quieter kind of defeat. Maybe it was a backslide into the pushover version of herself she was trying to grow out of—but she was tired. Emotionally wrung out. She’d had enough excitement for the evening.
But John looked determined . She recognized the glint in his eyes as the one he usually got when he had a difficult medical case in hand. And for the first time in her life, Victoria felt like someone was actively choosing to stand beside her instead of stepping away.
She thought about all the times she’d looked to her father for backup, silently hoping he’d say something, anything, in her defense. He never had. She’d stopped counting how many times he’d disappointed her in that regard.
But here was John, eyes steady on her mother, not flinching. Not backing down. And she thought: I could kiss him for this . Fuck him, even.
She would, if he’d let her. If she wasn’t so terribly afraid it’d ruin their friendship.
The buzzer rang again.
“He’s already here,” Eileen said with a tight smile, one that carried the unspoken message: don’t be difficult.
And Victoria knew, without a doubt, that’s exactly what her mother was thinking. Anytime something didn’t go her way, Eileen defaulted to the same accusations. Victoria had heard them all: difficult, stubborn, ungrateful, and so on.
“I’ll send him away.”
“John,” Aunt Mae stepped in smoothly, “I know you’re trying to help, but there’s no need to be rude.”
“I’m not the one being rude, Ma.” He shot a quick look at Eileen before standing and heading to the intercom in the next room. “Hi, Rehman? Yeah, we don’t need your food anymore, man. Why don’t you go ahead and take it over to Dr. Shamsi’s place instead? Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
Victoria watched her mother’s face shift through a whirlwind of emotions as they waited in the living room, listening to John speak with Rehman over the intercom.
“John can get a little... overprotective,” Aunt Mae said, giving Eileen’s knee a gentle pat. “Sorry about that. I swear I raised him with manners.”
Eileen glanced at Victoria with a curious look.
“I can’t stay mad at the boy, you know that, Mae,” she said with a soft smile, turning back to her friend. “Honestly, I respect him even more for standing up to me like that.”
Aunt Mae smiled warmly. “I’m glad to hear it.”
John returned, gesturing toward the dining room. “Vee, come help me set the food on the table.”
Victoria stood up and followed him into the kitchen.
The moment they were alone, she said in a low voice, “Thank you, John.”
He turned, gave her a look that could mean anything for all she could read of it. Then said, “I got your back, Javadi.”
“I feel dumb for not saying anything myself.”
John took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’re not dumb, baby. Eileen can be scary as hell when she wants to be.”
There he went again—calling her names that made her feel like she could climb a mountain or maybe swim across the Atlantic.
“You didn’t seem scared,” she commented, squeezing his hand back.
He glanced down at their joined hands, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, well, I was trying to impress you.”
Her heart went from a steady, normal beat to a frantic one.
“Really?”
“Yes, Vee. Really.”
Her body acted before her brain could catch up and put a stop to it. Victoria felt herself leaning forward, pushing onto her toes to gain precious extra inches, and then she was throwing her arms around John's neck and bringing his face down to meet hers. Or rather, to make their lips meet.
At first he didn’t have much of a reaction. Victoria could feel her brain going into panic mode, a veritable avalanche of words oh my god, I'm sorry, I'm so stupid already on the tip of her tongue. But the moment she peeled her lips away—it was a chaste kiss, like kids playing truth on dare for the first time—he placed a hand on the nape of her neck and pulled her back in.
Then her brain truly went overload.
“You little tease,” he said in a low, gravely voice. “Kissing me when our mothers are one door away.”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, a little drunk on all the endorphins and adrenaline running through her bloodstream.
He turned, picking up one of the plates and pushing it into her arms. “OK, you take this to the table before I listen to my lizard brain and fuck you in one of these counters.”
Victoria almost lost her grip on the dinner dish. “F-fuck me?”
He booped the tip of her nose. “Yeah.”
“I-I don't…” Victoria muttered, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “John, I’m still a virgin.” She laughed nervously.
He took a step back, placed both hands on the lip of the kitchen island behind him. His face got really serious all of a sudden.
“Vee, I need us to put a pin on this conversation and go back to our moms now, OK?” He said, still gripping the edge of the counter.
“Are you—did I say something wrong? Are you mad at me?”
John chuckled drily. “The opposite, actually.”
“OK. That’s good. I wouldn’t want us to be on bad terms.”
“Never, Vee.” John smiled tightly. “Now please, step out of the kitchen before I throw you over my shoulder caveman style and take you to my bedroom.”
Something about the way he said it, like he really couldn’t stop himself even if he tried it made her whole body tingle. John Shen, the famously cool and collected night shift doctor, the one who could sip coffee and talk about the weather during an MCI event, coolheaded and blasé about all things under the sun, that John Shen, was currently having to hold himself back from jumping her like a randy teenager.
She giggled.
“You think this is funny?” He sounded almost pained.
“A little, yes.”
“If you weren’t so cute I’d be spanking your ass later.”
Victoria’s cheeks felt hotter than concrete under 100-degree weather.
“I should… take this to the table now.” She lifted the dinner dish with the food that was probably no longer that hot, but she didn’t have the mental capacity to do anything other than think about John Shen’s lips on hers at the moment.
She had kissed John. Kissed him. Their lips had been touching just moments ago. Even with the heat of his skin on hers, she couldn’t wrap her head around it.
Once more, John joined them at the table after a moment of composing himself, which she thought was very funny and ironic considering she was the nervous mess between the two of them. She was honestly impressed that she was taking All This so well. Maybe she’d thought about it so much that it’d given her a degree of immunity to it now that it’d happened. Or maybe she was finally maturing. You know, being an adult about Things!
Aunt Mae, sweet angel that she was, complimented the food passionately throughout the whole ordeal, subtly glancing at Eileen every now and then as if to say your turn! But Victoria wasn’t expecting any praise from her mother. That was a rare occurrence, indeed. She could count on her fingers the times her mother had paid her a compliment that wasn’t immediately followed by a backhanded comment: good job on your MCAT score, could’ve been higher, but good job anyway.
“Have you started looking for places, Victoria?” Aunt Mae asked with the softness of someone urged by curiosity, but not the sharp inquiry of a parent who’s never happy with their child’s performance.
“Yes, John has been helping me look at Zillow listings.” Victoria smiled as she put her glass of water down. John was sitting across from her at the table, feet touching hers. At her comment, he nudged her left foot playfully.
“How’s that going?” Eileen asked, pushing food around on her plate. It was obvious she wasn’t happy eating it. She made a show of pursing her lips while staring at vegetables pierced through the tines of her fork as if they had mould in them. But Victoria chose to ignore her mother’s antics tonight.
Nothing could bring her down from the cloud she’d been put in by John’s kiss.
“Haven’t found anything good yet,” Victoria replied.
“There’s no rush,” John added. “Vee is a good roommate.”
“And is that all she is?” Eileen narrowed her eyes at John.
Cutlery clinked loudly. Victoria realized it was her dropping her fork and knife. John held Eileen’s gaze much longer than she would’ve managed in his place, which was an awesome feat in and of itself, and when he spoke, his voice was smooth and steady like water left in a bowl.
“I don’t know what you mean, Eileen.”
“I’ve always seen you as a son, John. But if you’re sleeping with my daughter, I’d like to know if you intend to marry her or not.”
“ Mom! ”
“Eileen, I don’t think we should be discussing our children’s love life over Kung Pao .”
“Entirely out of line!” Victoria threw her napkin down on the table.
“The lady doth protest too much,” Eileen said, narrowing her eyes at Victoria. “I’d love grandchildren, but not right now .”
“Oh my god.” Victoria covered her face with her hands. Then she looked up, saw John looking amused instead of mortified, and proceeded to kick his shin under the table. “Say something!”
“ Ow .”
“Maybe we should all take a breather!” Aunt Mae chimed in, holding her hands up like she could physically take back all the words thrown over the table. “Cool our heads a little?”
Victoria stood up abruptly. “I’m sorry, Aunt Mae, but I don’t feel like eating anymore.” Then, looking at her mother with anger, she spat out: “Thank you for ruining dinner.”
“You’re being—”
“Dramatic?” Victoria completed. “Yeah, maybe. But I get to act however I want in my house.”
Then she turned on her heels and headed toward her bedroom, slamming the door shut.
“Very adult, Victoria!” She heard her mother at the door, but locked it before she could come inside.
“Eileen, I think we overstayed our welcome.”
She didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, or whatever commotion might be going on outside, she put on her earbuds and muted the world out until she fell asleep to the sound of Saint-Saëns.
—
Someone climbed into bed with her. Well, squished her against the wall, more like.
One of her earbuds fell off as she turned her head to look at the intruder. Unsurprisingly, it was John.
“Told you to get a bigger bed,” he murmured, smile in his voice.
“How did you get in?” She asked, still a bit groggy from just waking up.
“I’ve got spare keys to all the rooms,” he informed. “Just in case.”
She hummed, nestling into his arm—which he’d snaked under her head. “Sleepy.”
“The mother left.”
“I imagined they did, or you wouldn’t be in my bed right now.” Victoria felt his legs behind her thighs, the warmth of him on her back. It was a very good feeling. It felt as though a weighted blanket could hug her back.
“You don’t know that,” he muttered next to her ear, eliciting a cascade of goosebumps down her neck and arms.
“I do, actually.” She turned—it was a tight squeeze—managing not to elbow him in the ribs as she did it. “You wouldn’t disrespect our mothers like that.”
He scoffed, mock-offended. “I kissed you while they were in the other room.”
Victoria ran her hands down his arms. Biceps . He had very hard, defined muscles. She could identify and name every muscle group by touch alone. Almost thought about doing it, too.
“It was a very chaste kiss.”
“Really.”
She lifted her head, saw the darkness in his eyes that she now recognized as desire, and said, “Yeah. Like I’ve had hotter truth or dare kisses back in elementary.”
John laughed. “You didn’t go to elementary, dummy.”
“Are you not going to kiss me better?” Victoria leaned forward, their breaths mingling, her heart hammering at triple its normal speed.
“You begging for it, Javadi?” But he was already kissing her, little pecks on the side of her mouth and on her cheeks and her eyes and everywhere on her face.
“I really am,” she breathed out, holding onto his shoulders like if she didn’t keep a strong grip she’d float away from all the soft, fuzzy feelings inside her.
She felt like light and airy, like a cloud. Or a balloon. Both sounded like an apt metaphor.
John kissed her again, hard. He covered her body with his, straddling her legs, hands cupping her face, guiding her head this way and that and he deepened the kiss.
“Open for me, Vee,” he mumbled between kisses.
She obeyed, feeling his tongue slide into her mouth and push against hers. He tasted like toothpaste, which in turn made her self conscious of how her breath tasted like.
“Kiss me back,” he said, cupping her face a little harder.
“My breath is rancid,” she explained. “You taste like toothpaste.”
John gripped her face with one hand, squeezing her cheeks with his thumb and forefinger. It made her feel ten years old again. He used to do that all the time to her, squeeze her cheeks like he thought she was cute or if he was trying to get her to follow his orders, don’t tell mom you saw me smoking, ok?
“Stop overthinking.”
Victoria giggled nervously. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I guess you have to make me stop.”
John’s answer was to lift her out of the bed in a fireman's hold and march her toward his bedroom. She yelped and screamed and kicked at him playfully, but the moment her back hit his bed he was over her again, trailing kisses down the line of her neck and over her clavicles.
“Couldn't fuck you properly on that twin bed,” he said while licking a path down her belly. “God, you're so hot.”
She had her hands on his hair, trailing fingers through the thick mass of it. Victoria had never felt so alive .
“John,” she panted, suddenly aware of the path he was planning on taking this. “I never did this before.”
“Fuuck…” He mumbled, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Baby, I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
Victoria let out an audible oh . His mouth on her neck felt like being repeatedly stimulated with small electric shocks. Her limbs were heavy, breath labored, and the lower half of her body was tingly and warm in a way she’d never felt before. Yeah, she’d been turned on occasionally, but never like this . Never like she was ready to grind on a scratching post just to relieve this terribly delicious itch .
John was all over her. He didn’t seem to know where to begin, not for lack of experience, but because he was simply overwhelmed by how much he wanted to do. The expression on his face was not unlike that of a kid in a candy store: hunger, desire, and awe glinting from his eyes.
He had his hands on her breasts, kneading gently, and his mouth was painting wet stripes down her stomach, coming dangerously close to her pubic bone, which sent all types of alert and tingles through her nervous system.
Then he was kissing her again, legs spreading hers on the mattress, hips settling between the cradle of her thighs, erection hard, hot, and demanding against her vulva. God, that was embarrassing. She couldn’t even say the word in her head and here she was halfway to getting introduced to sex.
“Dreamed about this, Vee,” he muttered, kissing her sternum, finding his way to her right breast. “These cute little tits. How they’d feel in my mouth.” He illustrated his point by licking and sucking her nipple.
“I like that.” She writhed against him, feeling her body grow restless, the energy that seemed to be pooling in her lower abdomen needing an escape.
“Yeah, baby?” He sucked her other nipple, gently grazing his teeth against her skin. She yelped in surprise, in delight.
“I like that too. Baby.” Horniness seemed to loosen her tongue, the words came tumbling out without filter. She’d worry about it later, though.
“Do you.”
She nodded, still rubbing against him like a cat in heat. “Yeah, makes me feel good.”
“What else?”
“I like Vee too, but I pretend I don’t. And I like when you call me Victoria in that low tone, all gravely like you haven’t drank water in a week.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “And Javadi. But only when you’re being a little bossy with it. Makes my stomach flip.”
John lightly traced her lips with his thumb. “Victoria, if I'd known getting you turned on would have you spilling all your secrets to me I'd have done it sooner.”
She playfully shoved him away, he—of course—didn’t budge. For starters, he was much bigger than her; but she also hadn’t been trying very hard to dislodge him.
“Stop squirming, Javadi.”
He pushed her shirt the rest of the way up—so far it had been bunched just above her breasts. Then he helped her out of her shorts and panties, hands skimming over her skin as he pushed down the fabric.
“You’re very pretty, Vee.”
She grew impossibly warmer at the praise.
He mapped out the modest curves of her body and her lithe limbs. There wasn’t a single nook he didn’t explore with his hands, fingers, and mouth. His eagerness was very surprising to her, considering she thought of herself being the only one between them who was actively pining.
“I’ve been thinking about this for months.” His voice was low, but she heard him all the same.
“I win,” she panted, amazed at herself for being able to still carry on with banter in these circumstances. “I’ve wanted you for years .”
“Jesus, Victoria.” His hands tightened around her hips. “You drive me crazy.”
“Ditto.”
He chuckled, then knelt on the bed, legs straddling her hips. His hands covered her breasts, now fully naked for his eyes to feast on as much as he wished to. Victoria shrunk a bit from the undivided attention, now that the kissing had stopped, her brain was gradually regaining some of its function back, and the first order of business was shouting very loudly you’re naked until she became self-conscious of it.
“Stop that,” he said, pulling her hands away from concealing her nakedness. “I wanna look at you.”
“You should get naked too. It’s only fair.”
“Always ready with an argument,” he commented, tone fond.
Then he stood up from bed and pulled his shirt over his head, followed shortly after by his pants and underwear. Victoria barely had time to process it all before he was climbing over her once more, fully naked, and hard .
She’d never seen a hard dick before. Well, not in person. Not for her .
“Keep staring at it and this will be over pretty quick, princess.”
Victoria’s eyes shot up to meet his. “Sorry, I’m trying to be normal about this but it’s hard.”
“Yes it is.” He pressed it onto her, the thick firmness of it sliding smoothly between her folds. It was such a shocking and pleasant feeling that she nearly forgot to comment—
“That’s a lame joke.”
John had been busy kissing her shoulder, but he stopped just to answer, “If you’re still backtalking me I’m not doing a good job of blowing your mind.”
Victoria was about to tell him that blowing her mind was a tall order—that she was, unfortunately, a tough nut to crack in that department. A product of being raised by Eileen Shamsi, yes, but also a lifetime of comfort had wired her to always expect the best. Five-star everything. She had a finely tuned radar for quality and a tendency to be unimpressed and underwhelmed.
But all of that went out the window as soon as he slid down her body and licked her pussy.
“Oh!” She jolted, but his arms were firmly pressing her down onto the mattress.
John Shen was eating her out. And he was stupidly good at it. Of course he was. He’d always been good at everything he set out to do, even though it seemed he wasn’t fully committed to it at first. But this was not the case presently. He was very much committed to her pleasure, she could feel exactly how much.
She came very suddenly; an abrupt fall off the proverbial cliff. The waves lapping up the cliff face rapidly engulfed her, pulling her under in a torrid current. Her legs trembled on either side of his head, and her hands gripped onto his hair as if that would help lessen the shockwaves wracking through her body.
“So pretty.” She heard him say.
Then he was back to kissing her.
“John,” she breathed, “John, I want more.”
He chuckled between kisses. “Yeah, baby?”
“Yes, please.” She held his face, cupping his cheeks with her hands, slightly digging her nails into the soft skin. “Just do it, OK?”
“I can’t say no to you.”
She smiled. “I know.”
John rolled to the side, reaching for the top drawer of his nightstand. He retrieved a small tin foil packet, opened it with his teeth, then rolled the condom onto his dick. It was such a quick, neat order of events she was instantly struck by the familiarity he had with the whole business. This was a man who was used to doing this. Having sex.
She knew—just like you know, in some vague, back-of-your-mind way, that your parents must have done it at least once for you to exist—that John wasn’t a virgin. Of course he wasn’t. He was older, more experienced in all aspects of life, including that one. He’d been engaged, for God’s sake! Victoria wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d been saving himself for marriage or (laughably) for her.
“Hey, where are you?” His voice pulled her out of the rabbit hole she’d fallen into.
“Here,” she answered with a small smile. “Sorry, I just realized you must’ve had lots of sex.”
“Not lots of it. I’m not a porn star, Vee.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being an insecure virgin right now,” she said, shaking her head and laughing self-deprecatingly.
“Don’t say that,” John murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. So—there you go. You’re my first.”
Victoria blinked at him. “John, you were engaged .”
He winced. “Yeah. Not my proudest moment.”
“I’m sorry— what ?”
“Vee,” he said, almost sheepish. “I was so obsessed that I basically went out and found your lookalike. Dark skin, long black hair, big brown eyes. I convinced myself she was the one… but she wasn’t. Because she wasn’t you .”
“What are you saying, John?” Her voice came out thinner than she meant, breath hitching in her chest. Everything felt tight—her ribs, her throat, the space between them.
“Victoria, I thought you knew…”
“Knew what.” She could barely get the words out. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room or between them or in her lungs.
“That I love you, dummy.” He said it with a soft laugh, rubbing their noses together like the tenderness might soften the blow of the truth.
“ John .” Half warning, half wonder.
“C’mon, Javadi,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “You’re the smartest person I know. Can you really blame me for thinking you’d already figured this part out?”
She kissed him.
“What are you waiting for? Put it in.”
John chuckled, wrapping his arms around her. “I’m happy you’re so eager, but all this talking made my boy go down.”
He reached between them, removed the condom, then tossed it aside.
“I can help,” she said.
“You sure can.” John kissed the tip of her nose, her mouth.
But jolted when she closed her hand around his dick. “Gentle, baby.”
Victoria softened her grip, but kept a steady hold. Then she gave a tentative jerk. “Like this?”
“Yeees. Just like that.” He closed his eyes, laid his head on her shoulder.
She wanted to taste him. Put him in her mouth. See how he’d react when she wrapped her lips around his dick. She heard guys liked that. Before she could change her mind, Victoria pushed him away, making him roll to his side to accommodate her, then she was getting on her knees on the mattress.
“Want me to suck you?”
“You have to ask, Javadi?” He said, crooked smile in place.
As soon as she put her mouth on him, he hissed. She immediately stopped, thinking she’d somehow already messed it up. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” he said with a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Vee. Cut me some slack, will you? I’ve been picturing this for ages, but nothing compares to the real thing.”
She licked his tip. “Ages, huh?”
He held onto her head, fingers burying themselves in her hair. “Don’t be mean, Javadi.”
Victoria licked him again, slowly this time. “I’m not being mean.”
“C’mon, baby, suck it like you mean it.”
Victoria put as much of him as she could in her mouth, tongue cradling the lower part of his dick. She knew the mechanics of sucking dick. But actually doing it was an entirely different beast. Her jaw hurt a bit and she couldn’t put much of him in her mouth without gagging.
She hollowed her cheeks and bobbed her head up and down. It was quite simple after that. He kept making humming, pleased noises, which helped with her morale. His hands were on her head, guiding her ever so slightly. And his hips had started thrusting just the tiniest bit into her mouth, like he couldn’t stop himself. Like it was instinct.
“Doing so good, baby,” he mumbled. “Such a good girl.”
Victoria felt herself growing even wetter.
“OK, enough,” John said suddenly, gently pushing her away. “I’m gonna fuck you now, princess.”
She blinked up at him.
“ Fuck , those eyes.” He grabbed her by the chin, fingers digging into skin. “You’re so pretty, Victoria.”
When she was busy sucking him, he’d grabbed another condom from his nighstand drawer ( how many did he have in there? ), and was now in the process of rolling it onto his dick once more.
“On your back,” he said, nodding toward the space beside him. Unlike hers, his bed was big.
She didn’t even hesitate. Her brain had already checked out, leaving behind a mess of half-formed thoughts and a singular, all-consuming want that didn’t care about things like logic or self-preservation. It probably wasn’t healthy—this level of need—this compulsion to have him, but she’d long stopped pretending to be immune to him. Once, she’d called her attraction to John a virus. And now, with his hands on her and the world blurring out around them, she realized she hadn’t been wrong. He was the sickness and the cure all in one.
He kissed her over and over again, hips settling between her legs.
Then she felt him down there, impossibly hard—and big. She wrapped her legs around him, tilting her lower body up to meet him in the middle.
“Relax, Vee.”
“I am relaxed.”
He chuckled, kissing her temple. “I can feel how not relaxed you are, baby.”
John’s dick was barely in, she could tell there was a long way to go. She was wet enough, but whenever he tried to push in her body’s natural response was to push back .
“Gonna make me work for it, huh?” He commented offhandedly, more to himself than to her.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“Shh.”
She was about to open her mouth again when he covered it with his hand.
“Stop apologizing for being tight.” He laughed in mild disbelief.
His hips were working against her in shallow thrusts. Every time his dick inched a little bit deeper. Like he said, he was having to work ( very hard, ha! ) to get the whole thing inside. Somewhere along the way, in one of his shallow thrusts, a barrier seemed to have been broken and he slid all the way in.
“There we go,” he mumbled, breath hot next to her ear.
Victoria felt pain, every thrust had her thinking about stopping him, but she wasn’t a quitter. Besides, pain was to be expected, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t be a baby and cry about it. Women had been losing their virginities for centuries, and if everyone else could do it, then she could probably do it better. When he finally bottomed out and started sliding in and out of her easily, she was surprised by how much more she wanted.
“We’re fucking,” she said, breathless, amazed.
John thrust a little harder at that. “Yeah, we are.”
She giggled nervously, choked back on a moan. “It feels good.”
He hummed in response, already lost to the sensation of having their bodies being so closely joined. She was halfway there, but every thrust sent her a little closer to that metaphorical ledge.
John lifted her with one hand and stuck a pillow under her lumbar spine with the other. The new angle made her see stars the next time he thrust into her.
She was so caught up in her own pleasure that she barely noticed how John was being loud . But it was something that her brain was silently cataloguing, putting away to analyze later. He was a talker, and a sweet one at that.
“Come for me, pretty girl,” he said—no, more like he ordered.
And she did. It was like he’d flipped a switch. One moment she was stumbling her way through a dark room, trying to find something in complete blindness, the next she was flooded by warm light, like that one the sun, and the thing she’d been looking for was suddenly all around her.
He followed right after, groaning under his breath, hips stuttering to a stop as he found his own release.
She cuddled up next to him, head on his chest, as they both rode down the high of incredibly good sex. John’s fingers trailing circles over her shoulder. One of her legs was thrown over both of his. The picture of satiated bliss.
“John?”
He hummed, eyes closed, fingers having found their way to her hair.
“I love you too.”
At that, he opened his eyes, smiled, then said—
“Duh.”
—
On another corner of the city two mothers spoke on the phone, the topic of conversation: their children and the scheme they’d come up with to pair them.