The desk in the back office of Reeves Healing was a heavy oak library table with a drawer that stuck every time the humidity rose above fifty percent. Evie Reeves gave the brass handle a sharp pull, her left shoulder pinching in protest, and the drawer gave way with a wood-on-wood screech that set her teeth on edge. Inside, the blue eviction notice lay flat against a stack of unpaid invoices from Boston Linens.

"The numbers aren't changing, Evie," Tanya said, leaning against the doorframe. She was wearing her bright pink scrubs, her hair piled in a messy topknot that looked ready to collapse under its own weight. She was chewing on a red plastic coffee stirrer, her teeth leaving small, white flat marks in the plastic. "I've run the ledger three times. We're short twenty-four hundred, even if we don't pay the electric bill till the second notice."

Evie smoothed the blue paper against the desk, her thumb pressing the crease until the paper threatened to split. The tip of her index finger was gray from carbon copy ink. "Giarusso's agent called before nine. Vinnie. He didn't even say hello. He just said he'd have the locksmith here by five if the rent wasn't in the slot."

"He's got five other tenants waiting for the space," Tanya said. She took the stirrer out of her mouth and pointed it at the window. "A developer is buying up the block. He wants us out so he can turn this place into micro-lofts for tech workers who want to live near the line. We're a tax write-off he doesn't want anymore."

"He can't just change the locks," Evie said. She reached for her black coffee. It was lukewarm, and a skin had formed over the top. She used a wooden tongue depressor from the jar on the desk to skim it off, flicking the sludge into the metal wastebasket. "It takes three weeks to get a hearing in housing court. I looked it up."

"You want to spend three weeks arguing with a lawyer who makes more in an hour than we do in a week?" Tanya leaned her head back against the frame. "We need the Killian contract. The deposit Chen promised is enough to cover three months. Plus the laundry."

"It's a conflict of interest nightmare," Evie said, her knuckles cracking as she clenched her fist. The sound was dry and loud. "Marcus Killian is the team captain. If Coach Voss finds out Chen sent him here instead of the corporate complex on Harbor Street, Voss will have Chen's license. And then Chen stops sending us the kids from the state school."

"We won't have a clinic to treat those kids in if we're on the street," Tanya said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a key ring, shaking it. "Did you leave that peach yogurt in the mini-fridge? The plastic lid is bulging."

"It's probiotic," Evie said, not looking up. "It's supposed to look like that."

"It looks like a biological weapon, Evie. It's green around the edge."

"Then don't eat it."

"I'm not going to eat it. I'm going to throw it out before it starts talking to the ultrasound machine." Tanya dropped the keys onto the table. "Jerry from the gas company came in at ten. His knee is still tracking wrong. He asked if we could do a payment plan for the dry needling. I told him we'd think about it."

"We're not charging Jerry," Evie said. "His union is still on strike."

"I know," Tanya sighed, her voice softening. "But the laundry service doesn't care about the gas workers' strike. They want their six hundred dollars for the towels. I'm using the old sheets from the closet today because we're out of clean white ones."

Evie stood up, her hip catching the corner of the oak table. A pile of patient charts slid to the floor, the manila folders splaying across the linoleum. She muttered a curse, dropping to her knees to gather them. Her left shoulder gave a sharp, familiar throb—a dull, hot reminder of the partial tear she'd been living with for three years. She ignored it, stuffing the files back into the cabinet with more force than necessary.

"I'm going to the Buck," Evie said, wiping her palms on her scrubs. "Leigh's working the day shift. She might have some cash from the weekend tips she can loan us."

"Leigh's tuition is due next week," Tanya said. "She's already working double shifts."

"I'm just going to talk to her," Evie said. "Keep the door locked if you go to the restroom. I don't trust the locksmith Vinnie uses."

*

The rain had started by the time she hit Tremont Street—a cold, gray drizzle that turned the brick bowfronts the color of old liver. The wind coming off the harbor was sharp, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and rotting garbage from the grocery store dumpster at the corner. Evie walked fast, her chin tucked into the collar of her canvas jacket, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. Her right shoe had a crack in the sole that let the damp through, cold and squelching against her sock with every step.

The Wounded Buck was wedged between a hardware store that only sold copper pipe and a boarded-up dry cleaner. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of pine sawdust, stale lager, and the bleach Leigh used to wash the bar rags. The neon Bud Light sign in the window hummed a low, vibrating B-flat.

Leigh Reeves was behind the bar, her copper-red hair held back by a faded blue bandana. She was using a butter knife to scrape dried mustard off a plastic squeeze bottle, her movements rhythmic and aggressive.

"Don't sit on the third stool," Leigh said without looking up. "The spring is coming through the vinyl. Some guy from the gas company ripped his trousers on it yesterday."

Evie sat on the fourth stool. The vinyl was cold, the foam underneath showing through a thin gray crack. "Is there any coffee?"

"It's from nine this morning," Leigh said, dropping the butter knife into a tub of gray water. "I can microwave it, but it's going to taste like a shoe."

"Just water," Evie said.

Leigh slid a thick glass across the zinc bar. A tiny yellow seed from a lemon was floating near the bottom. "You look like you're about to throw up."

"The landlord's guy is coming at five," Evie said. She took a sip of the water. It tasted of copper from the old pipes.

"Vinnie?" Leigh wiped her forehead with her forearm, leaving a smudge of grease from the kitchen vent. "He was in here last night. Ordered a pitcher of Bud and three plates of wings. He tried to pay with a coupon from the mailer that expired in August. I told him he could either pay the full six dollars or clean the grease trap. He paid, but he didn't leave a tip. Just three pennies and a button on the table."

"He's filing the lockout," Evie said.

"He's a thief," Leigh said. She leaned her hips against the back bar, crossing her arms. Her forearms were pale, marked with a small grease burn near the wrist. "How much do you need?"

"Twenty-four hundred."

Leigh let out a short, dry laugh. "I've got three hundred in the tin under my bed, and half of that is in quarters from the pool table. I need six hundred for the nursing registration by Thursday or they drop me from the clinicals."

Evie tapped her fingers against the glass. The seed floated in circles. "We might have to take the Killian client."

Leigh's face changed. The sarcasm dropped, replaced by a hard, flat squint. "The hockey player?"

"Marcus," Evie said.

"He's one of them, Evie. You know what they're like."

"He's a client."

"He's a Killian," Leigh said, leaning over the zinc. Her voice dropped, competing with the hum of the ice machine. "His father is the guy who did the governor's bypass. They have a house in Chatham that has its own security gate. I bartended a wedding there three years ago. The mother—that socialite woman—she looked at me like I was a cockroach that had learned to carry a tray of champagne. When one of the guests spilled a martini on the rug, she told the coordinator to deduct the cleaning bill from my agency pay."

"He's just a shoulder, Leigh."

"He's not just a shoulder. He's forty million dollars. He's going to look at your office and think he can buy you. He'll want you on call. He'll want you at his penthouse at midnight because he stretched too fast. And you'll go, because you need the twenty-four hundred."

Evie looked down. Her left shoulder gave a sharp pinch. She didn't want to admit to Leigh that she taped it every morning, that she can't afford the MRI, that she's treating Marcus's shoulder while her own is slowly fraying.

"It's the rent," Evie said.

"Julian paid the rent once," Leigh said. The name hung in the air, cold and heavy. "Remember? He paid the deposit on your first apartment, and then he spent six months reminding you that he owned the floorboards. Every time you wanted to go out with Tanya, he'd ask if you were using his money to buy the drinks. You spent three years trying to pay him back for a lease you didn't even want."

"Marcus is a patient. It's a business transaction."

"It's never just a transaction with people who have that much money," Leigh said. She grabbed a stack of clean pint glasses and began setting them on the shelf, her movements sharp. One glass clinks too hard against another. "They don't know how to look at you and see a person. They just see a bill they haven't paid yet."

A man in a grease-stained high-vis vest walked in and sat at the corner of the bar. "Leigh. Give me a Narragansett."

Leigh doesn't look at Evie again. She turns to the tap, her red ponytail swinging. "Draft or can?"

"Draft," the man says. "And the glass is dirty."

Leigh mutters something under her breath, grabs a fresh glass, and holds it up to the neon light. "It's lint, Jerry. It won't kill you."

Evie stood up. Her boots squeak on the damp wood floor. She leaves two dollar bills on the zinc, though the water was free. Leigh doesn't touch them.

*

The walk back to the clinic felt longer. The rain was coming down harder now, the wind whipping it sideways against her face. Her jeans were soaked through at the knees, the denim stiff and cold against her skin. When she pushed open the clinic door, the chime gave its usual rattling clink, but the waiting room was silent.

Tanya was standing behind the reception counter, her face pale, holding her phone in both hands. "Vinnie's at the corner of Tremont. He just texted a photo of the locksmith's van. He's not waiting until five."

Evie wiped her wet face with the sleeve of her jacket. "He's bluffing. He has to be."

"He's not bluffing, Evie," Tanya said, her voice rising. "He's got the blue paper in his hand. I saw him through the window five minutes ago. He was talking to the guy in the van."

The door chime clinked.

Marcus Killian walked in. He was wearing a black cashmere sweater today, the wool looking soft and clean against the gray light of the room. His dark hair was damp, the curls clinging to his forehead, and his wool coat was draped over his left arm. His right hand was tucked into his pocket, his shoulder tilted forward in that defensive, hollow guard.

He stopped, his blue eyes taking in the silence between the two women. He looked at the floor, where a small puddle had formed from Evie's boots, then at the reception counter.

"We need to talk about the arrangement," Marcus said. His voice was lower today, the vowels flat and measured. He didn't move toward the hallway. He stood near the door, his boots clean despite the rain.

"The arrangement is what it is, Mr. Killian," Evie said. She didn't take off her jacket. She stood with her hands flat against her thighs, feeling the dampness of her jeans. "You have a three o'clock slot. We're using the bay today."

"I want the private arrangement," Marcus said. He didn't look at Tanya, but he set his wool coat over the back of the worn leather chair. "I want the clinic empty when I'm here. Chen said you could accommodate it."

"Chen doesn't pay the lease," Evie said. "We have other clients. We have high school students who need the ice packs. We have Donna Marie."

"I'll pay three thousand for the block," Marcus said. He reached into his coat pocket with his left hand and pulled out a white paper envelope. It was thick, the edges clean and crisp. He set it on the wooden counter. It made a heavy, flat sound. "Cash. For the first two weeks. If I need more time, we renegotiate."

Evie looked at the envelope. The paper was clean, white, and had the logo of a bank in Back Bay embossed on the flap. She could see the outline of the bills through the paper—thick, green, and flat.

Tanya looked at the envelope, then at Evie. Her fingers were still shaking against her phone. She didn't say anything, but her breath was shallow.

Evie's left shoulder gave a long, hot burn. She remembered Julian's checks. She remembered the way he used to slide them across the table, always face down, as if he were doing her a favor she couldn't afford to refuse. The feeling of the paper under her fingers had been the same—thick, expensive, and heavy with obligation.

But the locksmith was at the corner.

"Tanya," Evie said, her voice flat. "Take it."

Tanya didn't hesitate. She grabbed the envelope from the counter. Her knuckles brushed Marcus's fingers, but she didn't look at him. "I'm going to the landlord's office," she said. She grabbed her yellow slicker from the peg and was out the door before the chime had finished rattling.

The silence in the waiting room was thick, broken only by the wet hiss of the radiator in the corner.

Evie turned toward the hallway. "Go to room one," she said. "Take the sweater off."

Marcus looked at her, his blue eyes dark under his brows. "I thought the bay was what was available."

"The bay is for clients who don't buy out my entire afternoon," Evie said, her voice tight. "Move."

*

Room one was small, containing the vinyl table, the steel cart with the ultrasound gel, and two plastic chairs. The window was narrow, overlooking the brick wall of the dry cleaner's next door, and the glass was filmed with gray city grime. The rain beat against it with a soft, steady patter.

Marcus had taken off his watch—the heavy silver Rolex—and set it on the steel cart beside the gel bottle. It looked ridiculous there, next to the plastic container with the blue cap. He stood by the vinyl table, his left hand grasping the hem of his black cashmere sweater.

He pulled the sweater up, his left elbow rising, but when he tried to clear his right shoulder, the joint locked. His body went rigid. A sharp, ragged gasp escaped his throat, his face turning red under his dark stubble as he stood there, his head trapped inside the collar of the sweater, his right arm pinned against his ribs.

"Don't move," Evie said, stepping closer. "Don't force it."

"I'm fine," he muttered, his voice muffled by the wool.

"You're not fine. You're going to tear the repair." She reached up, her hands taking the hem of his sweater. Her fingers brushed the bare skin of his stomach. His skin was hot, dry, and he had a line of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. His ribs were rising and falling with fast, shallow breaths.

"Left arm first," she said. She worked the fabric over his left hand, her fingers steady. Her touch was firm, clinical, but she could feel the heat radiating off him. "Now duck your head."

She pulled the sweater over his head, the wool smelling of that dry, cedar-scented cologne and sweat. When the fabric cleared, Marcus stood there, half-naked in the gray afternoon light.

The right shoulder was ugly. The skin was yellowing around the biceps, the three small arthroscopic scars looking like fresh purple burns against his pale skin. The deltoid muscle had flattened, the rounded curve of his shoulder gone, replaced by a hollow that made him look older than thirty-three. He was holding his arm tight against his side, his thumb tracing a small circle against the seam of his pants.

"Lie down," she said.

He sat on the edge of the table, his legs dangling. He tried to lay back, but his right shoulder caught, and his head bonked against the hard plastic of the headrest with a loud, hollow crack.

"Ow," he muttered, his face turning redder.

"It's a headrest, Mr. Killian," Evie said, sitting on the steel stool beside him. "It doesn't move. Move your hips down."

He adjusted his weight, the paper under him tearing with a loud, dry screech. He laid on his stomach, resting his forehead on the paper-covered cushion.

"The vinyl is cold," he said.

"Then don't touch it with your nose," Evie said. She took the bottle of unscented cream from the cart. "This is going to be cold, too."

She squirted a dollop of the cream onto her hands, rubbing her palms together to warm it. The sound was wet and rhythmic. When she pressed her hands against his upper back, Marcus went rigid, his breath catching.

"Relax your ribs," she said, her thumbs digging into the trapezius muscle near his neck. "You're holding your breath again."

"I am relaxed," he grunted into the cushion.

"You're not. Your scapula is locked. You've got a knot the size of a walnut right under the medial border." She leaned her weight into her hands, using the heel of her palm to slide down the length of his spine. The muscle was stiff, resisting her pressure like old wood. "If you keep guarding the joint like this, the tendon isn't going to heal. The blood flow is restricted."

"I have a game in December," Marcus said. "I don't have time to wait for blood flow."

"You don't have a game in December if you can't lift your arm to check a defenseman," Evie said. She worked her fingers into the hollow of his shoulder, finding the tightest knot near the shoulder blade. "Your coach Voss is going to drive you into the ice if you're not ready. Dr. Chen said Voss doesn't care about the recovery, he just wants the captain back on the line."

Marcus went silent. The only sound in the room was the squeak of her palms against his skin and the rain against the window.

"He's my coach," Marcus said finally.

"He's a tyrant," Evie said. "I've seen three of his former wingers come through here with permanent nerve damage because they returned three weeks too early. They don't have contracts anymore, Mr. Killian. They have disability checks that don't cover their mortgage."

"I'm not them," he said.

"No," Evie said, her thumbs digging deeper into the knot. "You're forty million dollars. You think the ice is softer for you?"

He grunted, his fingers gripping the edge of the vinyl table so hard the wood underneath groaned. "Stop."

"No," she said. "If I stop now, it will lock up again. Breathe through it."

She kept her hands on him, her body leaning over his back, her chest close to his shoulder. The proximity was forced, intense, and inescapable. She could feel the heavy, slow beat of his heart under her palms, the tension in his spine, the way his muscles fought her before slowly giving way.

"You don't like me very much, do you, Reeves?" he muttered.

"I don't like entitlement," Evie said, her hands moving down his arm. "And I don't like people who treat their bodies like disposable tools. Thursday. Same time."

She pulled her hands back. Marcus sat up, his left hand immediately reaching for the black cashmere sweater. He looked at her, his blue eyes dark in the dim light of the room.

"You took the money," he said.

Evie stood up, her own left shoulder pinching as she reached for the clipboard. "I took the rent, Mr. Killian. There's a difference."

She closed the door behind her, leaving him alone in the room with his watch and his wet coat.

*

The rain was still beating against the glass when she walked back to the reception desk. The waiting room was empty, the air smelling of eucalyptus and the damp coat Marcus had left on the chair. Evie sat behind the counter, her fingers tracing the place where the envelope had been. Her palm was still warm from his skin, the smell of his cedar cologne clinging to her fingers.

She took a black pen from the drawer and wrote Killian, M. - 3:00 PM on the schedule, her handwriting jagged and hard to read. She didn't look at the schedule for the rest of the afternoon. She just sat there, listening to the Red Line rumble beneath the floorboards, waiting for Tanya to come back with the receipt.

The elevator hummed in the building next door, a low, industrial sound that vibrated through the brick wall. Evie reached into her pocket and pulled out the roll of athletic tape, her fingers peeling the edge. She began to wrap her own left shoulder, her movements fast and practiced, her eyes fixed on the empty leather chair by the window.

"He's going to be late on Thursday," she muttered to the empty room. "He's always late."

She taped the joint tight, pulling the skin until the pain was a dull, manageable ache. Then she sat back, her hands flat on the desk, the rain slicking the street outside.

By four o'clock, the drizzle had turned into a steady downpour, the water gurgling in the rusted gutters along the roof. Tanya hadn't returned, but the locksmith's van was gone from the corner. Evie walked to the window, her forehead resting against the cold glass. The street was dark, the streetlights casting long, greasy yellow reflections on the wet asphalt.

A black town car was idling near the curb, its wipers moving in that slow, off-beat rhythm Marcus's car had used on Tuesday. She watched it for three minutes before the exhaust puffed white in the cold air and it pulled away, the tires splashing through the puddle at the corner.

Evie went back to the treatment room. The room was cold now, the heat from the radiator having died down to a faint, wet click. She picked up the vinyl cleaner bottle and a rag, wiping down the table where Marcus had lain. The paper was still in the wastebasket, crumpled and wet with cream.

She took the Rolex from the cart.

He had left it. The heavy silver watch sat on the steel tray, its second hand moving in a silent, sweep across the blue face.

Evie held it in her hand. It was heavier than she expected, the metal cold and smooth against her palm. She looked at the back, where the words Killian - 2022 were engraved in small, block letters.

"Stupid," she muttered.

She slid the watch into her desk drawer, locking it with the small brass key she kept on her ring. The key gave a stiff, dry click.

When Tanya finally walked in at four-thirty, her pink scrubs were spotted with dark circles of rain. She dropped a white slip of paper on the desk. "Giarusso signed the receipt. Vinnie was pissed. He said the locksmith charged him fifty dollars for the trip."

"Good," Evie said.

"Where's Killian?"

"Gone," Evie said. "He left his watch."

Tanya looked at the locked drawer. "You think he did it on purpose?"

"He's a client, Tanya. He forgot his watch because he was in a hurry to get back to his penthouse." Evie stood up, her shoulder pinching again. "Go home. The rain isn't going to let up."

"You coming?"

"I have to clean the bays," Evie said. "And the towels need to be folded."

Tanya grabbed her slicker. "Don't stay too late, Evie. The lock on the back door is still loose."

"I'll lock it," Evie said.

She waited until Tanya's footsteps died away down the stairs before she went back to room one. She sat on the vinyl table, her legs dangling just as Marcus's had. The vinyl was cold under her thighs, the tear in the corner showing the yellow foam. She reached back, her hand touching the spot where she had pressed her thumbs into his back. The skin was gone, the warmth was gone, but the smell of cedar and rain still lingered in the small room.

She laid back, her head resting on the hard plastic of the cushion. The ceiling was white, the cracks looking like small, dry rivers in the gray light.

"Three thousand," she whispered.

The Red Line rumbled, a deep, heavy vibration that shook the plaster and the vinyl and the cold glass of the window. Evie closed her eyes, her hand tracing the circle on her own shoulder, her thumb moving in small, dry circles against the blue cotton of her scrubs.

The lock on the front door was loose. She could hear the wind rattling the glass in the frame, a thin, paper-dry sound that went on and on into the dark.

She didn't get up to check it. She lay there, her arm pinned against her ribs, her breath shallow and cold in the quiet room.

The night went on, the rain beating against the glass, the water running down the brick walls of the building, slicking the dark streets of the South End.

Evie didn't sleep. She sat at the table in her kitchen, her fingers cold against the tin spoon, her shoulder throbbing under the tape, the weight of the city pressing against the glass.

*

The morning was cold. Evie woke at five, the light through the window a pale, watery blue. Her shoulder was stiff, the skin under the tape red and itchy where the adhesive had pulled. She peeled the tape off in the bathroom, her skin burning under the hot water of the shower.

She stood in front of the mirror, looking at the yellowing skin near her collarbone. The tear was there, invisible but real, a thin, frayed line in the muscle that kept her from lifting her arm above her ear without wincing.

She took a fresh roll of tape from the cabinet, her fingers tearing the strip with a sharp snap. She taped the joint, pulling the fabric of her skin tight, then threw the paper backing into the wastebasket.

When she reached the clinic at seven, Tanya was already there. She had a box of fresh donuts on the counter and the printer was hum-clicking, spitting out white sheets of paper that didn't have any gray smudges.

"The check cleared," Tanya said, pointing to the screen. "The Boston Mutual one. We have thirty-two hundred in the account."

"Great," Evie said. She hung her coat on the peg.

"And Chen's office called. Killian's agent wants the schedule for the next three weeks. Private blocks. Tuesdays and Thursdays at three."

Evie stopped, her hand on the reception counter. "Did you give it to them?"

"I had to, Evie," Tanya said, her voice dropping. "We have the money now, but the landlord is going to raise the rent in November. He told the lawyer he's adding four hundred to the lease because of the 'increased maintenance costs' of the block. If we don't have the Killian contract, we're done by Thanksgiving."

Evie looked at the scheduling book. The name Killian was written in pencil for the next six weeks, a long, neat line of blocks that took up the entire afternoon.

"He left his watch," Evie said. She unlocked the desk drawer and set the silver Rolex on the counter.

Tanya's hand went to her mouth. "You didn't call him?"

"No," Evie said. "He knows where we are."

*

The three o'clock slot on Thursday arrived with the same cold drizzle. Evie sat behind the desk, her fingers cracking as she watched the door.

At three-fifteen, the chime clinked.

Marcus Killian walked in. He was wearing the same dark wool coat, his dark hair damp, his right hand tucked into his pocket. He didn't look at the leather chairs. He walked straight to the counter.

"You have my watch," he said.

Evie reached into the drawer and set the Rolex on the wood. "You left it on the cart."

Marcus took it, his fingers brushing hers. His hand was warm, the skin slightly dry. He didn't put the watch on. He held it in his palm, his blue eyes fixed on her face.

"You didn't call," he said.

"I don't have your number, Mr. Killian," Evie said, her voice flat. "And I don't run a lost-and-found. Go to room one. Take the sweater off."

Marcus stood still for two seconds. A muscle in his jaw twitched, a quick, rhythmic movement under the pale skin. Then he turned and walked down the hall, his boots heavy on the linoleum.

Evie followed him. The door to room one was closed, but she could hear the rustle of his coat as he took it off.

When she pushed the door open, he was sitting on the edge of the table, his cashmere sweater already pulled over his head. He was half-naked in the gray light, his broad shoulders pale, his right arm pinned against his ribs.

"Lie down," she said.

"We're doing the scapula again?" he asked, not looking at her.

"Yes," Evie said, taking the cream from the cart. "The knot is still there. It's not going to go away in three days."

He laid on his stomach, the paper under him tearing with that dry, screeching sound.

Evie sat on the stool. She rubbed the cream onto her hands, her palms warm. When she pressed her hands against his back, she felt the immediate tightening of his muscles, the defensive guard he couldn't break.

"Breathe," she said, her thumbs digging into the muscle.

"I'm trying," he muttered into the cushion.

"You're not trying. You're fighting me." She leaned her weight into her hands, her body close to his, the smell of eucalyptus and cedar filling the small room.

The rain beat against the dirty glass of the window, a steady, inescapable sound that shut out the rest of the city. They were locked in this room, bound by the cash in the landlord's lockbox and the frayed tendon in his shoulder, trapped in a proximity that neither of them wanted, but neither could afford to escape.

"Tuesday," she whispered, her hands deep in his muscle. "Same time."

Marcus didn't answer. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white, his body tense and still under her hands as the Red Line rumbled beneath the floorboards, shaking the vinyl and the wood and the cold, damp plaster of the walls.

Evie didn't pull her hands back. She kept her palms flat against his skin, feeling the heavy, slow beat of his heart, the heat of him radiating through her scrubs, holding him there in the quiet room while the rain ran down the glass outside, slicking the dark streets of the South End.

"Don't move," she said.

"I'm not moving," he muttered.

They stayed like that, his skin hot under her hands, the silence between them louder than the rain.