Chapter 8: The Space Between Us

Two weeks of silence.

That's all it took to tear everything apart.

The drizzle hadn't let up all day. That fine, clingy kind of rain, soaks you without ever turning into a proper downpour. Just sits on your skin, clings to your lashes like it's got nowhere else to be.

Ava stood by her car, arms folded tight across her chest. The overhead fluorescents hummed above us, cold and half-hearted, barely cutting through the mist or the tension strung between us like a tripwire.

"You're pulling away again, Alex."

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to.

It was the flatness that got me. The way she said it like a truth already decided, like she'd played the scene a dozen times in her head and knew how it ended.

"I'm grand. Just tired," I muttered, shifting my weight, digging my hands deeper into the pockets of my hoodie like I could bury the whole problem there and walk off with it.

Ava's eyes narrowed.

"Tired, my arse. You flinch when I touch you. You don't stay over anymore… You won't even look at me."

She's right... but I can't say it.

Can't even name it properly in my own head. Just a pressure building in my chest, like I've swallowed something sharp and it's cutting every time I breathe.

"I've Mam ringing, Dad giving out, Erin being Erin… Nights flipping into days—"

"Stop dodging!"

Her voice cracked there, just a bit. Not loud. Just raw.

Her eyes weren't just angry now, they were tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of being second to a secret I couldn't even say out loud.

"If you don't want this, Alex, say it..."

A porter wheeled past us with a trolley full of IV bags, a horn blaring behind him as he veered around the corner. Pretended not to stare.

I glanced at my phone.

19:42.

"I need to clock in," I mumbled.

Didn't meet her eyes. Couldn't.

Just turned and walked off, trainers sticking slightly on the wet tarmac. Her silence followed me all the way to the staff doors.

Heavy. Hollow. The kind that stays with you long after you're gone.

On the surgical unit it was busy.

Every beep, every monitor, every patient call was background noise to the storm in my chest.

Dorian charted beside the nurses' station, jaw locked, lips tight. Every time I passed, the air got heavier, like my lungs forgot how to work.

01:10. Double‑checked a dopamine dose. Our gloved hands brushed. I nearly dropped the damn syringe.

02:03. A confused patient swung at me. Dorian caught his wrist before it landed.

"You alright, Riley?" he asked, low and steady.

"Yeah," I croaked, pulse going haywire.

By 02:45, the ward finally quieted down. But my blood was still screaming.

You're gonna break if you keep pretending you're not thinking about him…

I headed to the staff room just to breathe.

To sit. To drink a shit instant coffee. To pretend the world didn't exist for five minutes.

But the second I got the kettle on—

The door slammed open with a crack.

I jumped. Froze.

"You're such a bloody coward."

Dorian's voice was a blade. Sharp. Unforgiving. The door hadn't even swung shut behind him.

I flinched. Then straightened.

"Just 'cause I've been avoidin' ya? Don't act like you know me—'cause you don't."

He didn't even blink.

"You think just 'cause we shagged once, you know me? That you've got me figured out?"

I shook my head, eyes burning. "You don't!"

He took a step closer, voice low and venomous.

"I see you, Alex... and it pisses me off that you don't. You lie to yourself so much, it's actually pathetic."

I scoffed, shoulder-checked past him, ready to storm off, but his hand caught my arm.

Fingers tight. Digging in.

"You think hiding behind Ava makes it easier?" he spat.

"Pretending you're straight just so your family don't look at you twice? Grow the fuck up."

"Don't talk about my family," I snapped.

"Don't ever—"

"You're mine when you're not pretending," he growled.

"And you know it."

Something in me snapped.

I grabbed his scrub top, yanked him forward—

My lips crashed to his like violence.

It didn't stop him.

He shoved me hard. Back into the wall.

The breath knocked clean out of me.

And before I could say a word, he was on me.

Mouth hot. Teeth scraping.

One hand already tugging at my waistband, rough and angry.

"Is this what you wanted?" he snarled, lips at my ear.

"You parade around for her... but when it's real? You come crawling back to me."

"Shut up," I gasped, half moan, half warning.

He spun me.

Face to cold plaster.

Breath ghosting my cheek.

No asking. No hesitation. Just need.

One hand braced my hip, the other slid between us—

Rough. Fast. Merciless.

Every thrust said fuck you.

Every growl said mine.

I should've hated it.

Should've fought it.

But my knees buckled.

My forehead hit the wall.

Mouth open on a sound I didn't recognise.

He didn't go slow.

Didn't bother with sweet.

Just that punishing rhythm and that voice—

"Say it."

"Fuck you," I panted.

He laughed.

Low. Wicked.

"Not what I meant."

His hand wrapped around me, tight and unforgiving, matching his pace.

"You want this," he muttered, breath broken.

"You begged for it the second you kissed me."

"I hate you…" I gasped.

"Liar."

I came with a cry that ripped out of me.

Like it cracked something open.

He wasn't far behind.

Groaning into my shoulder like letting go hurt.

We didn't speak after.

No words. Just heavy breathing. Ruined scrubs. The echo of something that wasn't quite regret.

But not quite right either.

Before I left the staff room, I caught sight of myself in the metal panel of the microwave.

Collar rumpled. Neck flushed.

A faint mark already rising beneath the skin of my neck.

I fixed my hoodie over my scrubs. Composed my face.

And walked out like nothing happened.

Except—

A nurse stepped in just as I opened the door.

Eyes widened. Pause.

Then she turned heel like she hadn't seen a bloody thing.

Of course she had…

The rest of the shift flew past, not because I was busy, but because I was completely, utterly zoned out.

Every time Dorian smirked in my direction, I burned hotter under the skin.

Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe properly.

He knew exactly what he was doing. That smug bastard.

Next shift was a day one.

And I felt it... like a hangover.

Not from drink. But from adrenaline. Guilt. Lust. The bruises under my hoodie.

And the fact I'd swapped shifts last-minute like a coward.

Coffee scorched my tongue as I stepped onto the ward.

Ava spotted me straight away. Her eyes flicked down, clocked the plaster just under my scrub collar.

"You alright?" she asked gently, placing a hand on my arm.

"Yeah. Why?"

She tilted her head, motioning to my neck.

"Scratch?"

"Cat," I lied without blinking.

We don't even own a cat.

Then—him.

Dorian strolled past like he owned the place.

Eyes glinting like sin.

He caught my gaze—

Mouthed it with a wink.

'Mine.'

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Stumbled forward, coughing mid-sip.

Ava watched me for a beat too long.

Didn't say anything. Didn't need to.

The silence felt sharper than shouting.

I buried myself in patient rounds. Obs charts.

Anything to keep out of her orbit.

Because politeness?

It's worse than fury.

Later, off shift, nerves frayed and mind fried—I found Dorian leaning against the staff entrance.

Like trouble waiting to happen.

Like he knew I'd come looking.

"Chow mein, cheap beer, and a movie?" he asked, casual.

I nodded. No words left in me. Not for him. Not for anyone.

His flat smelled the same as last time.

Takeout and shower gel.

Socks abandoned halfway to the hamper.

And something warm beneath it all that hit me right in the ribs.

Felt like home.

We crashed on the sofa. Ate in silence. Let the TV hum between us like background noise to the storm neither of us wanted to name.

Halfway through, I leaned against him. Just a bit.

He didn't speak. Just pulled me closer.

Let it happen.

His kisses were different this time.

Softer. Slower.

Like he wasn't rushing to punish, just to feel.

But the second I let out a moan, he shifted.

Growled low. Hungry.

And bit the same bloody spot on my neck again.

"Agh—fuck's sake!" I yelped, jerking back.

"You made it worse..."

"Meant to," he smirked.

His hand slid under my shirt, fingers stroking lazy paths down my ribs like he had all night to memorise me.

Like I wasn't the one leaving come morning.

Except I didn't.

Not really.

I woke up tangled in his sheets, one sock missing, phone face-down on the floor buzzing like it was about to explode.

I reached down with a groan.

9 Missed Calls & 12 Texts.

Mam: "You working today love?"

Dad: "Ring your mother."

Ava (3): "We need to talk."

Erin: "You home yet? Jordan's asking."

Brilliant.

I sat up, immediately regretting it when the galaxy-sized hickey on my neck twinged. Again.

I glared at the dinosaur plaster Dorian had slapped on last night like it was a solution.

"This all you've got?" I muttered, peeling it off and wincing.

Dorian, half-asleep, mumbled into the pillow.

"Don't judge my first-aid box."

"You used the same spot again, ya feckin' idiot."

He grinned without opening his eyes.

"Exactly."

I made it home just before noon. Slipped in through the front door like a teenager trying to avoid a lecture.

Kitchen smelled like coffee grounds and food.

Jordan was already up, sat at the table, cereal in hand, flicking through footie scores on his phone.

He didn't look up.

"Grand night?" he asked, voice way too casual.

"Don't start."

He sniffed once. Paused. Looked over at me with a raised brow.

"That's not your usual scent."

I froze.

"You don't even wear aftershave," he said slowly. "Is that… Dorian's?"

I blinked.

"No."

He didn't even try not to grin.

"Liar."

Then, like it was nothing, he slid a mug of coffee across the counter.

"I'm not judgin' ya, eejit. Just… maybe next time don't come home smelling like someone else."

He nodded toward my neck.

"And wearing a bloody cartoon plaster. What are you, five?"

I nearly choked.

God help me.