The doorbell rings at precisely seven, and I hear Arthur’s muffled voice from the foyer, then a deeper, pleasant one I recognize as Mark’s. “I’m here for Imogen Crane,” he says, and I feel a jolt of pure, unadulterated teenage mortification. Amelia materializes at my elbow, her face lit with predatory glee. “Showtime,” she whispers, and I march toward the staircase like I’m heading to my own execution.

Descending into the foyer is a wide-angle shot of my personal hell. Arthur is shaking Mark’s hand with professorly solemnity. And there, leaning against the archway to the living room like a brooding statue in a dark sweater and jeans, is Sebastian. His eyes sweep over me—the sleek black trousers, the silk blouse Amelia insisted on, the hair she tamed into a smooth wave—and his expression doesn’t change. It’s the blank, polite mask I haven’t seen since the morning after the pool. Amelia breezes past me, hand extended. “You must be Mark! I’m Amelia, the sister. We’ve heard so much.” She hasn’t. I’ve told her nothing.

“Arthur Fairfax,” Arthur says, not releasing Mark’s hand. “You’re a resident at Memorial?”

“Yes, sir. Internal medicine.” Mark’s smile is friendly, but his shoulders are tense. He glances at me, a silent plea in his brown eyes.

Sebastian pushes off the wall. “What brought you to Wyoming, Mark?” His tone is pure academic curiosity, but it lands like an interrogation. “It’s a far cry from… where was your residency before?”

“Denver,” Mark says, and now he looks like a specimen under twin microscopes. “The opportunity here was a good fit. The community needs…”

I can’t listen to another word. I step into the space between them, the scent of Sebastian’s soap—cedar and something sharp—hitting me like a physical wall. “Hi! Sorry, we should really go. Reservations.” I don’t have reservations. I hook my arm through Mark’s, feeling the solid muscle of his forearm beneath his jacket. “Lovely to see you all. Don’t wait up.”

The night air is a cold slap. Mark exhales a laugh as he opens the passenger door of his sensible sedan. “Wow. That was… thorough.”

I collapse into the seat, the polished costume of me suddenly suffocating. “They have no boundaries. I’m so sorry.” As he rounds the hood, I glance back at the lit foyer. Sebastian is still in the archway, watching us drive away, his face a pale, unreadable moon in the dark frame of the door.

Mark’s apartment is exactly as I remember it: the scent of stale coffee and his faded cologne, the single lamp casting long shadows across the worn leather sofa. But this time, there’s another layer—the rich, savory aroma of something simmering. “Coq au vin,” he says, shrugging out of his own jacket. “It’s just about ready. Hope you’re hungry.” I wait for the perfect moment, just like Amelia coached, and slip my own blazer off with what I hope is casual elegance, hanging it on the back of a dining chair. The silk blouse feels less like a costume here, in the low light.

He plates the food with a careful, practiced grace—chicken falling off the bone, glazed carrots, a heap of buttery mashed potatoes. “My mom’s recipe,” he says, setting a plate before me. “She believed any problem could be solved with a good braise.” The first bite is a revelation. “Oh my god,” I moan, and he laughs, a warm, easy sound. The conversation flows over the meal—stories of his residency in Denver, the chaos of the ER on Saturday nights, the elderly patient who brought him tamales every Thursday. He’s surprisingly funny, self-deprecating, and genuinely kind. I feel my shoulders unhitch from my ears. This is nice. This is comfortable. For the first time in weeks, my mind isn’t a scrolling marquee of panic and longing.

We migrate to the living room with glasses of red wine. I curl into the corner of the sofa, tucking my feet beneath me. He sits closer than he did at dinner, his thigh a solid line of heat near mine. The talk turns quieter, more personal. He asks about California, about writing, and actually listens to my fragmented answer. His hand finds mine on the cushion between us, his thumb stroking my knuckles. The touch is simple, grounding. My breath catches, but it’s not from anxiety. It’s from the clarity of it. No buzz of cheap alcohol, no performative fury. Just the warm weight of his hand, the focus in his brown eyes as he looks at me. “Imogen,” he says, my name soft in his mouth.

He kisses me then. It’s not a question. It’s a slow, deliberate convergence. His mouth is warm, his lips firm and sure. He tastes like red wine and the dark herbs from dinner. His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheekbone, and the kiss deepens. It’s expert. It’s all-consuming. His tongue sweeps against mine, not demanding, but exploring, and a low, approving hum vibrates in his chest. My hands come up to his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle there through his shirt. He kisses like he cooks—with attention, with care, building flavor and heat until you’re dizzy with it. I melt back against the sofa cushions, and he follows, his body a welcome weight.

Things progress in a slow, fluid blur of murmured words and shifting fabric. His bedroom is neat, dim. His hands are everywhere, unhurried, mapping me. He worships every inch with his mouth, his touch reverent and thorough. When he finally sheds his boxers, I see him fully. He’s… impressive. Thick and heavy, curving upward, already glistening at the tip. A purely carnal, triumphant thought slices through the haze: I am the luckiest girl.

The sound of the condom wrapper tearing cuts through the thick, wine-sweet air of his bedroom. My attention snaps back to him, to the solid, muscular reality of Mark kneeling between my thighs. A hysterical, silent scream echoes in my skull: How did I get so lucky to have two men with two huge dicks? Followed immediately by its darker twin: Or how am I so unlucky? My vagina is going to be a ruined cathedral after they’ve both been through it. He sheathes himself with a clinical efficiency that’s somehow deeply erotic, and then his hands are on my hips, warm and sure.

“Okay?” he asks, his voice a low rasp. He’s watching my face, his brown eyes soft with concern. I nod, words stuck somewhere behind my breastbone. He’s slow. Deliberately, devastatingly slow. The broad head of him presses against me, and I feel my body give, a hot, yielding ache. “Just breathe,” he murmurs, and I realize I’m not. He pushes forward an inch, a burning, perfect stretch. He waits. Lets my muscles flutter and adjust around him. He knows exactly how big he is. The stretch is so good it’s stupid. A broken sigh leaks from my lips.

“There you go,” he says, a smile in his voice. He sinks deeper, and my back arches off the sheets. It’s a full, profound pressure, a re-mapping of my internal geography. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, his face inches from mine. Our breath mingles. He moves, a slow, deep withdrawal, then a return. His rhythm is a patient, relentless tide. Each stroke is a masterclass in attentive fucking. He watches every flicker on my face, adjusts his angle based on my gasp, my moan. His thumb finds my clit, circles with just the right pressure, and stars explode behind my eyelids.

“You feel incredible,” he groans into my neck, his control fraying just a little. The slap of skin, the wet, slick sound of our joining, the creak of the bed—it’s a symphony of perfect, consensual ruin. My mind, that traitorous organ, detaches. It hovers near the ceiling, watching this beautiful, skilled man make love to the polished stranger in Amelia’s silk blouse. And it thinks of another body, leaner, paler, moving with a desperate, claiming fury in moonlit water. The comparison isn’t fair. It’s vile. But it’s there. This is a five-star meal. That was stealing food because you were starving.

“Look at me,” Mark whispers, and I do. His brow is damp, his expression open, rapt. He is entirely here, with me. The intimacy of it is more devastating than the physical perfection. I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to outrun the ghost in the room. “That’s it,” he encourages, his pace quickening, his breathing growing ragged. “Come with me, Imogen.” And because he is kind, and skilled, and here, and because my body is a grateful, responsive animal, I do.