The door clicked shut behind Ava, the soft snick of the latch echoing in the too-quiet room. Mateo exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers digging into the thin hospital sheets like they were the only things keeping him from unraveling. The air still carried her—warm vanilla, the faintest hint of sweat, the ghost of her perfume clinging to the space where she'd leaned over him. His cock throbbed, the damp spot at the tip of his gown growing wider, the fabric clinging obscenely to the shape of him. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But the feverish heat in his veins wasn't just from illness; it was from the way her breath had hitched when she'd traced his jaw, the way her fingers had trembled against his throat, the way she'd whispered things she'd never dare say if he'd been awake.
Fuck professionalism and most definitely fuck morality. Right now, all he could think about was the way her lips had parted when she'd looked at him, how he imagined her nipples to have hardened under that prim blouse, how she'd been touching herself in her office, thinking of him. His hand slid down his stomach, fingers curling around the stiff length of his cock through the gown. A broken sound escaped him—half groan, half whimper—as he gave in, stripping the fabric aside with a rough tug. His dick sprang free, flushed dark and leaking, the head already slick with precome. He spat into his palm, the wet sound obscene in the silence, and wrapped his fist around himself with a shuddering breath.
But it wasn't just Ava in his head anymore.
The fantasy twisted, morphed—because as much as he wanted her, there was another face that haunted him just as badly. Bambi. The way she'd looked at him that night he left, after she had touched herself and came so beautifully, all smoldering eyes and pouty lips, the way she'd let him use her, let him fuck her throat while Ava watched. His stroke faltered, hips jerking up into his grip as the memory hit him like a punch to the gut. God, what if they were together? What if Ava wasn't just bending over his bed, whispering filthy things in his ear, but straddling Bambi's face, those perfect tits swinging as she rode her tongue? What if Bambi was on her knees, lips stretched around his cock, while Ava—
His breath came faster, shallower, the monitor beeping in time with his racing pulse. He could see it: Ava's fingers tangled in Bambi's ginger curls, guiding her down, down, until his cock hit the back of her throat. Bambi would gag, but she'd take it, her mascara-smudged eyes watering as Ava leaned down to kiss her, their tongues tangling while he fucked into that wet, willing mouth. Or maybe Ava would be the one on her knees first. Maybe she'd be the one choking on him, her blouse unbuttoned, her bra pushed aside so Bambi could suck on those rosy nipples while he thrust up into Ava's throat, his balls drawing tight, his—
"Fuck—fuck—" His free hand fisted in the sheets, his back arching off the bed as his cock pulsed violently in his grip. The first rope of cum shot up, splattering across his chest, hot and thick, the next landing on his stomach, his fingers, his wrist. He kept stroking through it, milking himself dry with rough, desperate tugs, his breath ragged as he painted himself in sticky white streaks. The fantasy didn't let up—Ava licking cum from Bambi's lips, Bambi spreading her legs so Ava could eat her out while he watched, their moans mixing, their bodies glistening with sweat and—
His cock gave one last twitch, a final dribble of come oozing from the slit. Mateo collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat and spend. The room smelled like sex and fever, the sheets tangled around his legs. He should clean up. He should. But his arms felt like lead, his body drained, his mind still half-lost in the filthy daydream. He really didn't care if the other patient's were awake and heard or saw him.
A knock at the door jolted him back to reality.
Mateo's head snapped toward the sound, his heart hammering. "Shit—shit—" He fumbled for the edge of the sheet, yanking it over his lap just as the door creaked open. A nurse, not Ava, thank God; poked her head in, her brows lifting slightly at the sight of him flushed and disheveled.
"Dr. Vasquez asked me to check on you," the nurse said, her gaze flicking to the monitor, then back to him. "Your temp's still elevated. You feeling alright?"
Mateo swallowed, his throat dry. "Yeah. Just… restless."
The nurse, Elara, that was her name stepped further into the room, her shoes squeaking softly against the linoleum. She didn't look at the damp spot on the sheet. Didn't mention the way his breathing was still uneven. But her lips quirked, just a little, like she knew. Like maybe Ava wasn't the only one who'd been filling her head with less-than-professional thoughts.
"Need anything?" she asked, her voice low, almost teasing. "Ice water? A cold compress?"
Mateo's face burned. He could still feel the come drying on his skin. "I'm good."
Elara lingered for a second longer than necessary, her gaze dragging over him in a way that made his spent cock twitch traitorously. Then she smirked. "Suit yourself." The door clicked shut behind her.
Alone again, Mateo groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. This was getting out of control. He needed to talk to Bambi. Needed to hear her voice, ground himself in something real before he drowned in this feverish, filthy obsession with Ava. But his phone was across the room, plugged in by the window, and the thought of moving right now made his muscles ache.
He'd reach out later. After he cleaned up. After he got his head on straight.
After he stopped imagining his doctor and his girlfriend together.
********************************************************************************
Back in the small, nameless town where Bambi and Mateo had shared most of their lives together, Bambi lay awake on the floor, her hair spread across the cold tile as though she were intentionally trying to cool her head, which she was. The AC had no gas in it, so it was out of commission, and the fan couldn't do much, only circulating hot air around the room. It was the kind of oppressive heat that settled into your bones and made your skin feel too tight, the kind that made the simple act of breathing feel like a chore. She rolled over, knocking a few empty beer bottles that were scattered around her—soldiers in a tiny, sad army she'd been commanding for days—and tucked her knees into her body as if she were embracing herself, the only source of comfort in the stifling, silent apartment.
Ten days. It had been ten days since Mateo sent her a half-baked text telling her not to worry about him, completely forgetting the fact that he hadn't communicated with her for three days prior to the message. Ten days of replaying that text in her mind, dissecting the two emojis he'd appended; a simple wave and a sad face, searching for hidden meanings that probably weren't there. Ten days of her calls going straight to voicemail, of her messages marked "delivered" but never "read." She had become a ghost in her own life, haunting the spaces they once shared: his empty side of the bed, the front door she stared at for hours, willing it to open.
While she was still on the floor counting her days, her phone vibrated next to her, the sharp buzz against the hardwood startling her from her daze. She picked it up, the light from the screen highlighting the dark circles that had taken up permanent residence under her eyes, making her look like a stranger to herself. The caller ID displayed Lucas. She let out a long, weary sigh before picking it up, her thumb hesitating for just a moment over the decline button before she swiped to accept.
"I told you that I'll give you a call once he reaches out to me. I have no idea where he is currently," she said, holding back tears that had become her constant, unwelcome companions.
"That's not why I called you," he replied, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone, the kind of impatience that suggested he'd been building up to this conversation for a while. "I called to know why you haven't shown up for work these past few days."
Bambi didn't reply immediately. She let the silence stretch between them, counting the seconds on the cracked ceiling above her, making Lucas doubt if the call was placed on hold or if it had disconnected entirely. The audacity of it almost made her laugh—almost. "I never got any memo stating that you were my employer," she finally replied, pushing herself up from the floor, the joints in her knees protesting the movement after so many hours of stillness. She staggered into the bathroom, the phone wedged precariously between her shoulder and ear, one hand braced against the wall to steady herself.
"It's not bad that I want to look out for you, Bambi. Mateo isn't around and I—"
"You would love to fuck me," she cut him off, the words coming out flat and cold, stripped of any emotion. She heard him sputter on the other end.
"Bambi, I need you to—" he tried to speak, only to get cut off again.
"Lucas, I don't want your pity. Whatever happens in my life is MY business. You're not my friend, or my brother, or anything to me. So take your concern and shove it up your ass!" She screamed over the phone, her voice cracking on the last word, and ended the call before he could respond. Her hand trembled as she tossed the phone onto the bathroom rug.
She turned on the tap for the bathtub, watching the water gush out, the sound of it filling the silence she had just shattered with her outburst. She waited for it to get filled up while she was crying, silent tears tracking paths through the grime and salt on her cheeks. She stepped into the bathtub still fully dressed in the thin nightgown she had been wearing for the past ten days, the fabric clinging to her legs as she lowered herself in. The water was cool against her overheated skin, a momentary shock that quickly gave way to something almost like relief. She submerged herself completely, counting to ten to drown out her thoughts, to silence Lucas's voice and Mateo's silence and the screaming emptiness of the apartment. But no matter how many times she came up for air and went back under, the water always carried the same whispered thought back to the surface, echoing in the hollow chambers of her chest: Mateo, where are you?