The evening settled over Kieran's penthouse like a soft blanket—city lights twinkling far below, the faint hum of traffic a distant lullaby through the thick glass. Inside, everything felt warm, alive, impossibly normal.
The girls had claimed the kitchen like it was theirs. Camila stood at the marble island in an apron she'd found in a drawer, directing traffic with the confidence of someone who'd watched too many cooking shows.
"Okay, Isabella, chop those onions smaller—unless we want chunky tears," she teased.
Isabella laughed, wiping her eyes dramatically. "These onions are attacking me! It's personal!"
Aveline was at the stove, stirring a pot of creamy tomato basil soup with the focus of someone solving a math problem. "This actually smells… good," she said, surprised.
Ayla hovered near the fridge, pulling out ingredients for garlic bread. "Kieran has actual fresh garlic. Who keeps fresh garlic in their house? Rich people, that's who."
Kieran stood at the edge of the chaos—arms crossed, leaning against the doorway—watching with that quiet, almost-smile he wore only around me. He'd taken off his sweater earlier; now he was in a simple black t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and chest in a way that made my cheeks warm every time I looked. He caught me staring once and raised one eyebrow—gentle, teasing. I ducked my head, smiling into my lap.
"Need any help?" he asked the room.
Camila waved a wooden spoon at him. "You stay right there and look pretty. We've got this. But thank you for having a kitchen that actually has spices."
He chuckled—low, soft—and came to sit beside me on the long cream sofa. The girls had insisted I move from the wheelchair to the couch; Kieran had carried me over himself—effortless, careful, like I weighed nothing. Now a thick blanket was tucked around my legs, portable oxygen concentrator humming quietly beside me. I felt… included. Not pitied. Just part of them.
The food came together fast—soup, garlic bread, a massive bowl of salad because "we're being healthy for Blossom." They carried everything to the low coffee table. Kieran helped me sit up straighter, tucking pillows behind my back, making sure I could reach without straining.
We ate sprawled across the living room—girls on the floor with plates balanced on laps, me and Kieran on the sofa. Conversation flowed easy and loud: Isabella reenacting Eliot's dramatic exit with exaggerated facial expressions, Camila doing a perfect impression of Mrs. Kattie's shocked face when she'd seen Kieran carry me out of the hospital, Aveline quietly admitting she'd cried happy tears in the car on the way here.
Kieran listened mostly—calm, steady—only speaking when someone asked him something directly. But his hand never left me: resting on my knee over the blanket, thumb tracing slow, absent circles; brushing my hair behind my ear when it fell forward; passing me bites of bread when my arms got tired. Every small gesture felt like a promise.
After dinner, Ayla found the remote. "TV time! What are we watching?"
"Something happy," I said softly. "No hospitals. No dying people."
They chose a cheesy rom-com—predictable, bright, full of laughter and kissing in the rain. The girls sprawled across the floor and other couches, passing around popcorn Kieran had quietly made in the kitchen. Halfway through, Isabella started quoting lines dramatically; Camila threw popcorn at her; Aveline laughed so hard she snorted.
Kieran watched them with that quiet amusement, then looked down at me.
"You happy?" he asked—low, just for me.
I nodded, eyes stinging. "More than I've ever been."
He leaned in—slow, careful—and pressed the softest kiss to my temple. "Good."
The movie played on. My friends laughed and argued over the plot. The city sparkled outside the windows. Kieran's arm stayed around my shoulders—warm, solid, safe.
For the first time in forever… I wasn't thinking about time running out.
I was just here.
Alive.
Loved.
Happy.
_
_
_
The evening had stretched into a cozy haze—empty soup bowls scattered across the coffee table, half-eaten garlic bread crumbs on plates, the rom-com paused on the TV with the leads frozen mid-kiss.
The city lights glittered beyond the windows like scattered stars, and the girls had migrated to the floor in a loose circle, blankets and cushions dragged over for comfort.
Kieran sat beside me on the sofa, one arm resting casually along the backrest behind my shoulders—close enough that I could feel his warmth, but not crowding me.
His fingers occasionally brushed my hair when he thought no one was looking, or traced idle patterns on my upper arm through the blanket—small, private touches that made my skin tingle every time.
The girls were still buzzing from dinner, passing around the last of the cupcakes and debating whether the rom-com couple would actually last in real life.
Then Isabella—never one to let silence linger—sat up suddenly, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Okay, but real talk," she said, pointing between me and Kieran with dramatic flair. "You two. When are you going to… you know…" She waggled her eyebrows. "…do it?"
My cheeks ignited instantly. Heat rushed from my neck to my ears so fast I thought I might combust.
Kieran went very still beside me. His hand—still resting on my shoulder—tightened just a fraction, fingers curling slightly into the blanket.
Then—almost imperceptibly—he shifted. His arm slid from behind me, his body eased back a few inches, creating a small but noticeable gap between us.
His posture straightened, shoulders squaring, like he was trying to reclaim some professional distance.
When I dared glance at him, his ears were faintly pink, jaw set, eyes fixed on the paused TV screen.
The unflappable Dr. Kieran Voss was blushing—and clearly trying not to make it worse for me by staying too close while the girls barreled ahead.
Camila gasped, then burst out laughing. "Isabella!"
"What?!" Isabella defended, grinning. "I'm just saying! He's literally your doctor. He knows your heart rate better than you do. If anyone can make sex safe and gentle and perfect for Blossom, it's him!"
Kieran cleared his throat—quiet but firm. "Perhaps we could… change the subject," he said, voice low and controlled, though the roughness in it betrayed him. "Blossom doesn't need the entire group discussion—"
But Ayla leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes wide with excitement, completely ignoring his attempt. "Oh my god, yes. Think about it—our doctor Kieran's so calm and careful. He'd probably have the monitor app open the whole time like, 'Pulse steady, proceed to next level.' Total control. Total hotness."
Aveline—usually the quiet one—covered her mouth to hide a smile, but her eyes danced. "He'd be so attentive. Like… checking in every second... that's husband material right there."
Kieran shifted again—another inch away. His hand dropped from my shoulder entirely now, resting on his own knee instead.
His flush had deepened, creeping down his neck. He rubbed the back of his neck once—a rare, nervous gesture—then tried again, voice a touch firmer. "Ladies. This is… not an appropriate topic."
Camila leaned in closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper—but still loud enough for everyone. "Seriously, Blossom. He already takes such good care of you. Imagine him taking care of you like that. Slow. Gentle. Making sure you feel every second without pushing too hard. He'd probably kiss every inch of you first, just to be sure you're relaxed."
Isabella clutched her chest dramatically. "And those hands! God, those long fingers. I bet he knows exactly where to touch. Precision, you know? Doctor hands."
Kieran exhaled slowly through his nose—almost a sigh. His posture was now fully upright, back straight, hands clasped loosely in his lap, like he was trying to physically distance himself from the conversation.
But his eyes kept flicking to me—checking, always checking—for discomfort, for embarrassment, for any sign I wanted him to intervene more forcefully.
Ayla nodded vigorously. "And he's strong but careful. He carried you like you were made of glass yesterday. Imagine him holding you while he… you know… makes you feel good. Like, really good."
I buried my face in my hands, mortified. "Guys… please…"
Isabella noticed his retreat immediately. "Look! He's literally scooting away! Oh my god, this is adorable. Doctor, are you okay? Your ears are bright red. And your neck! You're actually turning pink!"
Kieran's lips twitched—almost a real smile, but strained. "I'm… managing," he said, tone dry but laced with something warmer. He glanced at me—eyes soft, apologetic. "Though I'd prefer if the discussion stayed hypothetical. Or… preferably nonexistent."
The girls laughed—bright, delighted—but they didn't stop.
Camila reached over and patted my knee. "Blossom, seriously. He's perfect for you. He already knows your limits better than anyone. He'd never hurt you. He'd make it… beautiful."
Aveline nodded. "And safe. That's the most important part. You deserve to feel good, Blossom. You deserve to feel wanted. And he clearly wants you."
Kieran's flush deepened. He shifted once more—another small retreat—until there was a visible gap between our bodies now.
His hands stayed firmly in his lap, fingers laced tightly together like he was holding himself in check.
Even while pretending to watch TV, his eyes never left me—dark, intense, burning beneath the embarrassment.
He leaned in slightly—not touching now, but close enough that only I could hear. "Later," he whispered, voice barely audible, rough with promise. "When they're asleep. I'll show you exactly how much I want you. Privately."
My breath caught. Heat flooded me all over again—sharp, needy, electric.
He pulled back, posture still rigidly polite, and louder—for the girls—he added calmly, "If Blossom ever wants to discuss… anything… with me, she knows where to find me. Privately."
The girls squealed—triumphant, teasing—but Kieran's gaze stayed locked on mine, soft and heated.
Isabella clutched her chest. "See? He's already on board! Blossom, just do it with him! He knows what's best for you. Your best choice. Like… imagine it. Him being all careful and intense and… ugh, I'm jealous!"
Camila sighed dreamily. "He'd probably time your orgasm with a stopwatch. 'Pulse steady, proceed to next level.' Total doctor boyfriend energy."
Ayla laughed. "And those hands! Precision. He'd know exactly where to touch. "
My shyness was on top and doctor noticed that.
Kieran's patience finally frayed.
He straightened fully, the casual doctor gone, replaced by something sharper, more commanding. His voice cut through the giggles—low, velvet-edged steel.
"Enough."
The single word landed like a dropped scalpel. The room stilled instantly.
He exhaled once, controlled, then fixed each girl with a steady, unblinking look. "You've had your fun. Blossom is bright red, I'm two seconds from combusting, and this conversation has officially crossed every professional and personal boundary I have left tonight." His ears were still flushed crimson, jaw tight, but his tone held quiet authority. "I'm asking—nicely—for the last time. Stop. Now."
Silence bloomed. Isabella opened her mouth, then closed it. Camila bit her lip, eyes wide. Ayla shrank back into her cushion.
Kieran softened fractionally, gaze sliding back to me—private, molten. "Thank you," he murmured, only for me. Then, louder, gentler: "Let's continue the movie. Please."
The girls exchanged sheepish glances. They started watching the movie again.