It hits in waves.

Warmth blooms low in your belly, spilling out under your skin like wildfire. You're curled up on the bed, already tangled in one of Cuddy's t-shirts, your knees tucked up, trying to manage the need — the ache — the want — that's humming through every inch of you.

You'd tried to stay quiet. You always do. But she knows you too well.

The bedroom door creaks open and there she is — Lisa — her silhouette outlined in soft hallway light. Her eyes fall on you immediately, reading your posture, your flushed cheeks, the tiny tremble in your hands.

"Oh, baby..."

She crosses the room without hesitation. You barely have time to look up before she's kneeling on the bed, pushing the hair from your face, stroking your cheek with her thumb like it's instinct.

"I didn't want to bother you," you whisper, voice thick with need and restraint.

She leans in, kisses your forehead, and whispers, "You never bother me."

Your body shivers as her scent wraps around you — clean skin, lavender, a trace of her perfume. It grounds you. Anchors you. Makes your fingers reach for her without thinking.

"I need you," you admit softly, like it hurts to say out loud — not because it's shameful, but because the need runs so deep. It always does, when it's her.

She kisses you — slow, open, warm — and settles in beside you, pulling you into her arms with the kind of ease that only comes from love that's lasted.