19.

Ava

My hands tremble just a tad as I peel off my surgical gloves, the last patient of the day—or rather night—finally stable. Physical exhaustion meshes with mental drain. Both hang from my shoulders like a leaden cloak.

I lean against the wall of the OR, letting out a controlled breath, fighting the urge to slide down into a heap.

“Dr. Winters, are you okay?” a nurse asks.

I straighten, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just a long day, Linda. Thanks.”

She nods and moves on. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Roman: Dinner?

I thumb the screen, my weary brain secretly hoping for an out. I’ve canceled and rescheduled twice during the last month. Maybe three times and we’re out. Done. Despite all this time, I can’t convince myself that dredging up the mess of my feelings about Roman is really worth it, that it could possibly amount to anything.

Me: Running late. Might need to take a rain check.

Maybe he’ll be tired too. Maybe he doesn’t really want this either. Seconds tick by, turning into the longest minute of my life. Another buzz. Then Roman’s response dashes any hope of an early night.

Roman: Osso buco will be ready when you get here. No rush.

I can almost taste the rich, savory sauce, the tender meat that falls apart at the slightest touch. My stomach growls, betraying me. His best dish. And it’s amazing.

“Damn it,” I mutter, pushing off from the wall.

In the locker room, I change out of my scrubs with robotic motions, swapping them for jeans and a soft sweater. My reflection in the locker room mirror looks back at me, all tousled hair and the ghost of determination in my eyes.

“You’ve got this,” I tell myself, though whether I’m referring to facing Roman or just staying awake isn’t clear.

The ride over to his place is a blur, my thoughts a muddled mess. The rideshare drops me at his building’s doorstep. It looks the same as it did when we broke up. I ring the bell, and he buzzes me in. I trudge up to his place, and as soon as the door opens, the scent of osso buco envelops me.

“Hey,” Roman greets me, exhaustion lining his eyes. But there’s warmth there too.

“Hey,” I echo, stepping inside. The familiarity of his apartment nudges at memories I’ve tried to box away. He broke my heart once, shattered it into pieces that took years to mend. And here I am, walking back into the lion’s den.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, though it’s more habit than actual regret.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies, closing the distance between us to wrap me in a hug. The heat from his body is a siren call, one I’m not sure how to resist. “You look…tired.”

“Thanks,” I reply dryly, the sarcasm a weak shield. “You always know what to say to make a girl feel special.”

He chuckles. “Come on, let’s eat. You must be starving.”

Starving hardly covers it. I nod and follow him to the dining room where the table is set for two. It’s intimate, candlelit, softening the lines of the man who used to mean everything to me.

As we sit, it’s impossible to ignore the way my body reacts, the way my heart betrays my mind with every thump against my chest. I push the feelings away, tuck them into the same box with the broken shards of my past. He’s not the same Roman. I’m not the same Ava.

“Looks incredible,” I manage as I stare at the plate before me.

“Only the best for you,” Roman says.

The sincerity in his tone makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe both. But instead, I smile, because that’s what you do when you’re trying not to fall back in love with the person who left you in ruins.

He serves us, and I bring a morsel of osso buco to my lips, the savory flavor mingling with a hint of rosemary and wine.

Roman watches me from across the table, his eyes eager for approval. “Tell me about your day,” he prompts, as if we’re two old friends catching up rather than what we really are—two people still circling each other warily, remnants of a past love like scars between us.

I swallow, buying time before speaking. “There was a man—a triple bypass. It was touch-and-go for a while.” My voice trails off, lost in the memory.

“Sounds intense.”

“It was.” I meet his gaze, steady now. “But he made it. He shouldn’t have survived, but there was no giving up on him. He’ll live to see another decade thanks to that surgery.”

“Amazing,” Roman murmurs, and I catch admiration in his eyes.

“And you? What life did you save today?” I challenge.

He takes a breath. “A little girl. We confirmed she had viral meningitis. Her parents were beside themselves, couldn’t imagine where she would’ve gotten it.” His face softens, the doctor giving way to the compassionate human underneath. “We caught it in time, though. She’s on serious medications, but she’s doing better.”

“Good work,” I say. Despite everything, I’ve never doubted his talent or his dedication.

“Thank you.” Roman’s smile is warm, but then it fades. “Does practicing medicine fulfill you?”

“Every single day,” I reply without hesitation. Feeling the weight of life and death in my hands is an honor, a burden, a passion.

Roman nods, seemingly content with my answer, but there’s a shift in the air. The conversation turns personal, the ground beneath us less certain. “I’m happy practicing pediatrics too. And I…” He hesitates, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “I regret how things ended between us. I messed up. Badly.”

My heart thuds. “Yes, you did.”

“Sometimes I—” He stops, collects himself. “Do you ever think about me?”

The ship has sailed . That’s what I should feel, what I should believe. But the truth is a treacherous sea, and I’m adrift in its waves.

“No,” I lie smoothly, the words like armor over a wound still tender. “That ship has sailed.”

“Right,” he says, a shadow darkening his eyes. Yet he recovers quickly. “More wine?”

“Please.” As he pours, I wonder if the sharp tang will be enough to erase the lingering taste of lies from my tongue.

When we’ve finished dinner, Roman asks to drive me home.

“I have a rideshare already,” I assure him, fatigue dragging at the edges of my voice.

“Okay, let me at least walk you to the door.” There’s a tenderness in his eyes that I haven’t seen in years, and it unnerves me.

“Fine.” I stand, and he’s suddenly there, helping me into my coat, his fingers brushing my shoulders, stirring something inside me that I’ve tried so hard to extinguish.

“Thank you,” I murmur, and then he’s too close, his breath mingling with mine, and we kiss. It’s supposed to be a peck, a mere brush of lips, but Roman deepens it, and I’m lost to the warmth, the familiarity, the intoxicating scent of him.

“God,” he breathes against my mouth, and I’m aflame, every cell alight with need.

“Roman…” His name is a plea, a surrender as my hands find their way to his shirt, pulling it from his pants.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.

“Yes,” I answer, surprised by the urgency in my reply.

Our clothes become casualties of our desire, discarded in a trail leading back to his bedroom. I catch glimpses of us in the hallway mirror, flashes of skin and passion, a visual echo of the reckless hunger consuming us.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice rough with emotion as he stands before me, his admiration laid bare in his gaze. “No woman compares to you.”

“Roman…” I sigh, allowing myself this moment, this indulgence. We’ve been down this road before, but my body yearns for the journey, even if my mind screams caution.

“Tell me you want this,” he insists.

“I do,” I confess, because denying it would be lying to myself more than to him.

In a dance as old as time, we move together, stoking the flames of a fire I was certain had turned to ash. But here I am, burning anew, wondering if this time, the heat will consume me. Or will I at last find warmth without the sear of pain.

The sheets are cool against my heated skin as Roman gently lays me down. My breath hitches.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“More than okay,” I manage to whisper back.

Roman positions himself between my thighs, and the air around us crackles with electricity. His lips and fingers explore my naked body. He’s an artist, painting strokes of pleasure that light up my mind, bursting into vibrant colors that leave me breathless. His fingers slowly circle my clit.

“Roman…” My voice breaks on his name as I arch beneath him, the slow build of ecstasy threatening to overtake me.

“Let go. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his lips tracing a path along my collarbone.

I’m teetering on the edge, a precipice of pure sensation, and then I’m falling, tumbling into the abyss as waves of pleasure crash. My climax rolls through me like thunder, leaving me gasping and clinging to Roman.

As I come back to myself, his gaze meets mine, his desire evident. “Ava, tell me how you want it,” he says, his voice rough with need.

“Deep. Hard. Fast,” I breathe, each word punctuated by my heartbeat in my ears. For a moment, a shadow moves across his face, a crack in his confident exterior. But before I can question it, he’s back, rolling on a condom with deft fingers.

“Then that’s what you’ll get,” he vows, and with a single thrust, he’s inside, filling me completely.

“Ah, Roman!” The sensation is overwhelming, his thickness stretching me in the most delicious way. Each thrust hits that perfect spot, building a crescendo of pleasure that threatens to sweep me away once again.

“Say it,” he growls, each word matched with a stroke that sends sparks flying from the point of our connection.

“I’m coming,” I cry, the words torn from me. With a final, deep push, we both reach the brink, and together we shatter, our release exploding like fireworks in the quiet of the room.

“God,” Roman exclaims, his breath hot against my neck. Our hearts hammer in tandem, our bodies slick, and for a moment, I let myself drown in the intimacy.

Roman shifts, and his eyes hold a glimmer of something more than satisfaction—hope, perhaps. “Next time,” he murmurs, “I want to make love to you.”

I laugh, a sound that’s more escape valve for my nerves than genuine amusement. The idea of a next time is ridiculous, isn’t it? I push myself up, steadying my breathing, and slip out of the bed. My legs feel like they’re made of overcooked noodles.

In the bathroom, harsh light reveals the collateral damage—a face streaked with mascara. I’m a raccoon-eyed reminder of my lapse in judgment. What have I done?

I scrub at my skin, erasing the physical evidence, but there’s no cleanser strong enough for regret. When I return, Roman’s propped up against the headboard, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. Sleep has claimed him, stealing away the moment of vulnerability. How easy it would be to slide back under the covers, to pretend this is where I belong.

But I can’t. I won’t.

I dress quickly, every second stretched taut with the urgency of fleeing before he wakes. With one last glance at the man who once broke my heart, I slip out.

The silence of the rideshare wraps around me like a shroud. The roads are nearly empty, and a litany of self-rebuke rings in my ears.

Stupid. So damn stupid . This was never supposed to happen, not again, not with him. We’re oil and water, past and present colliding with no future in the mix.

Why did I let him touch me? Why did I crave his hands on me, his body pressed to mine? Each question is a barb, each memory a wound freshly opened. I had my guard up. I was supposed to be immune to his charms.

And yet…I wasn’t.

The ride home is a loop of self-castigation and the sting of tears I refuse to shed. I should’ve known better. I do know better. But knowing and feeling, like head and heart, are two paths that don’t always converge.

“Never again,” I whisper as I get out of the car. But even as I say it, I taste the lie on my tongue.