The Forbidden Throb Chapter 56

Emma's POV:

The taxi's worn leather seats felt like a small mercy after the confrontation with Nicholas.

I slumped against the door, watching Boston's traffic blur past the window, my mind replaying every poisonous word he'd hurled at me.

*Sugar daddy. Return on investment.*

My fingers curled into fists against my lap. How dare he!

I forced myself to breathe, to push his words away. Some people simply weren't worth the mental space. Nicholas had proven that definitively today.

"Boston University, miss?" The driver's voice broke through my spiral.

"Yes. Thank you."

I'd spent the rest of the afternoon in the library after Nicholas's... whatever that was. An explosion, maybe. A tantrum.

After my afternoon classes ended, I'd headed straight to the library and thrown myself into my capstone project with single-minded focus, letting the familiar rhythm of research and writing drown out everything else.

Professor Laurent had sent encouraging feedback on my draft, and I keep working, keep moving.

I only realized how late it had gotten when I glanced up and noticed the library had emptied around me.

The usual study groups were gone. The rustling of pages and clicking of keyboards had faded to near silence. Only a handful of students remained, scattered across the vast reading room, their faces illuminated by laptop screens in the dimness.

The overhead lights had been dimmed hours ago—the library's subtle signal that closing time approached.

I checked my phone: 11:23 PM.

*Oh.*

No wonder my eyes felt gritty, my shoulders tight with tension.

With a quiet sigh, I began gathering my things—laptop, notes, the three books I'd pulled for reference. My movements felt mechanical, automatic.

My mind was already shifting to the next task: getting home. Getting sleep.

The night air was sharp when I stepped outside, cutting through my coat.

I pulled out my phone and requested a ride, watching the little car icon on the screen wind its way through Boston's streets toward me.

I settled into the backseat and watched the city slide past the window, the familiar route from campus to the apartment becoming a blur of streetlights and late-night traffic.

When we pulled up to the building, I thanked him quietly.

I reached the door and noticed the living room light was on, glowing warmly through the curtains.

Something in my chest loosened slightly.

I let myself in quietly, toeing off my boots in the entryway. The apartment was silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator.

I set my bag down on the hall table and stood there for a moment, listening to the silence.

Daniel must be asleep by now, I thought.

My stomach rumbled quietly. I'd grabbed dinner earlier—a quick sandwich from the campus café—but the hours of intense mental work had burned through that energy.

My body demanded fuel after my brain had consumed so much of it.

Maybe there was something in the fridge. Just a snack. Something small.

I moved toward the kitchen, my socked feet silent on the hardwood.

I selected a glass from the cabinet behind the island, getting some water first. Then I padded to the refrigerator, easing the door open as quietly as possible.

The light from inside spilled across the floor, illuminating neat rows of vegetables, yogurt cups, pre-cut fruit in clear containers. There was sliced cheese, crackers, some hummus—simple things that required no preparation.

I was reaching for the container of berries when I heard it—the soft click of a door opening behind me.

I froze, my hand suspended in mid-reach.

I turned around and looked up—and there he was.

Daniel stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

He'd clearly just showered. His dark hair was damp, water droplets still clinging to the strands. He wore only loose gray sweatpants, slung low on his hips, and his chest—

*Oh.*

I'd known Daniel was fit. But I'd only ever seen him in his white coat, or in the perfectly tailored shirts and slacks he wore outside the hospital. Professional. Polished. *Distant.*

This was... not that.

His shoulders were broader than I'd realized, the muscles of his chest and abdomen defined in a way that suggested regular, serious exercise. There was a scar—thin and pale—along his left ribs, barely visible.

Water still clung to his skin, catching the kitchen light.

I felt my face heat, a flush spreading from my cheeks down my neck.

*Get it together, Emma.*

Daniel's gaze found me first, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. Then he glanced at the digital clock on the wall—11:47 PM—before looking back at me, taking in my bag still in the hallway.

"Working late?" His voice was quiet, still rough with sleep.

I managed to nod, my hand still frozen on the refrigerator door. "I—yes. Capstone project. Lost track of time."

Daniel moved further into the kitchen, and I became acutely aware of how small the space suddenly felt. He stopped on the other side of the island, his expression concerned.

"Are you hungry?"

"I... yes."

I finally let go of the refrigerator. "I was just going to grab something small. I didn't mean to wake you."

"I was still up." He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that seemed almost tired. "Heard you come in."

He moved around the island with quiet efficiency, opening the refrigerator and pulling out ingredients—fresh pasta from a container, some olive oil, garlic.

"Sit," he said, nodding toward the stool at the island.

I found myself obeying, settling onto the stool and watching as he worked.

His movements were economical, practiced—water set to boil, garlic minced with quick, precise cuts, oil warming in a pan. The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic sautéing, warm and comforting.

But it wasn't just the food that caught my attention. It was the way he moved—the flex of his shoulders as he reached for the cabinet, the lean strength visible.

I realized I was staring and quickly looked away, focusing on the grain of the wooden countertop.

*Stop it*, I told myself. *He's making you dinner. That's all this is.*

He didn't speak much as he cooked, just focused on the task at hand. Within minutes, he'd plated a simple but perfect pasta—aglio e olio, glistening with olive oil and flecked with garlic and red pepper flakes.

He set it in front of me, then returned to the stove where milk was already warming in a small saucepan. He added a spoonful of honey, stirring it until it dissolved completely, then poured it into a mug and placed it beside my plate.

"Warm milk helps you sleep." 

"Eat," he said quietly. "Then get some sleep early."