Feel Real

"Wait up, Hayes. What the hell was all that about?" Meredith asked sharply as she placed the tablet back into the rack at the nurses' station. God, he'd been such a dick all day.

Cormac threw his body weight into the counter, turning so that his back pressed into the ledge and his hands came up to clasp over his sternum in a smug, relaxed manner. "Just waiting for an apology, that's all," he slipped out in his charming, Irish tone.

She crossed her arms, staring him down as she stepped a foot closer to him, "You're not getting one."

"Dr. Grey can't handle my superior diagnosis, I presume?"

"Your diagnosis was a lucky guess. Any other time that would have been a simple in-and-out fix and he'd have been home by tomorrow. You know that as well as I do!" Her finger swung up to make her point, jabbing through the air in his direction. For some reason, he was one of the few men left in this hospital that could fire her up in such a way. He made her so angry sometimes, sending her into a blind rage over the stupidest things. He was so smug, so confident, so cocky, so sexy, so... ugh.

"I try not to guess cancer, Dr. Grey," he said calmly, not letting her alter his calm demeanor. It wasn't his fault his assumption was correct, even if it was the worst-case scenario in this case.

She sighed, looking at him sternly until he lifted his gaze and made eye contact with her. "Sorry," she mumbled. He had a way of making her cave just with that slightest glance to pull her out of the depths of her ego.

He nodded, arms still clasped calmly over his chest as he exhaled and directed his eyes towards the room of the patient they'd just finished up with, "He'll be OK. The surgery should be curative and he'll be back on the mend in no time. If it makes you feel any better, I was hoping I was wrong."

Coolness came over her as she watched him so relaxed against the tall counter of the nurses' station. The way he so smoothly sank into the stiff, harsh counter as it pressed into his back, the way his scrubs fit him beautifully, the way his skillful hands relaxed over one another, it was all too much for her some days. Almost enough for her to ignore what a piece of work he could be. He knew when her brewing anger wasn't solely due to the situation at hand, though. It was comforting, in a way, to know that he understood her.

"Meredith," he whispered, breaking from their usual habit of calling one another by their last names. They saved each other's first names for specific moments only. However, no one else ever heard them mutter those public designations. "Are you going to tell me what's really up with you today or am I going to have to fuck it out of you in the on-call room?"

Her breath hitched, making her feel that rush of heat slam into her chest and travel through her body before pooling between her legs. She bit her lip and turned to glance around for any onlookers, "I have twenty minutes, you?"

"Plenty of time." His voice was husky, dirty, filled with heat. He looked her in the eye before she quickly looked away, afraid to make eye contact with him.

He pissed her off so bad sometimes.

Sometimes he just rubbed her the wrong way.

Other times he knew just the spot.

As her back was slammed up against the wall of the locked on-call room, she recalled why she'd been doing this for a couple of months now.

The way he held her up on his hips, the way he sucked gently on her collarbone, the way he filled her core and thrusted into her like they were in their 20s again. He made her feel alive. She knew she made him feel the same way.

Both had suffered the loss of their one true love, not just a spouse. They each lost the love of their life; someone irreplaceable to the highest extent.

But as he threw her down onto the springy, creaky bottom bunk of the bed in the on-call room, she was able to let go of all of that pain and finally feel again with someone who didn't aim to replace the love of her life or try to fill the giant hole his death left in her heart. It wasn't love. It wasn't even lust. It was an understanding between two trusting friends that they both needed to feel again.

They'd gotten it down to a science. Coming together as their lips worked in sync, moaning into one another, he cradled her head with his hands and worked his fingers through her long, blonde curls. When he slowly slipped away and collapsed from his dominant position over her, he rolled over to her side, kissing her neck and shoulder gently as his fingertips danced over her delicate folds, making her tremble. He always took such good care of her after these spontaneous moments of thrill, no matter where they happened. He cared for her as if she truly meant something to him, not just using her. Not that she minded, either way.

It wasn't just sex. It wasn't love either.

It was feeling.

It was the feeling of falling and the right person being there to catch you just before you hit the ground.

It was that eerily familiar feeling of drowning and being pulled out of the water just in the nick of time before the water consumes your lungs and takes you down with it.

"Cormac?" She whispered against the silence of the small, dark room. He was resting on his side against the slim curves of her body, but she couldn't bring herself to make eye contact with him. She slid her hand along his toned arm for comfort.

"Hmm?" His response was soft, but caring. Now was the time when they vented to one another and got it all out. They had always been oddly comfortable being vulnerable to one another, even naked under the cheap sheets of an on-call room bed.

"Thank you," she said gently, "You always know when I need to escape. Thank you for seeing me."

He knew she meant that on a deeper level than the physical sense. He knew when the stress, pain or exhaustion was reaching a crest and about to spill over. He knew when she needed to feel that release and let go of it all. He could hear it in her voice, see it in her expression, and feel it in her presence when she carried tension into a room. She rarely let others see how much pain she was in on the inside. She always tried to please everyone. He saw it, though. He saw what she carried around with her because he knew he carried it around as well.

"You do the same for me. Thank you." His voice was barely a whisper. He dragged his fingertip up her thigh before bringing it to her hip.

She felt goosebumps from the chill his soft touch sent through her body.

Did she want more? She wasn't even sure. Did he want more? Maybe. She couldn't tell. Neither had requested anything more, nor had they requested anything less. It'd been nearly two months of secret whiskey dates in his office with the blinds drawn before heading out, hot hook-ups in the on-call room during a long shift, and an occasional quickie in the backseat of his SUV after a grueling day.

He turned her on her side, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her shoulder. His hands swept over her chest and clasped over her arms, holding her securely for the short while they'd have together before one of their phones would go off and tear them away from their newfound peace. Maybe what they were doing was wrong, but when they felt their bodies curled together for a moment of quiet, it felt just right.

It's not about the sex. It's not... about the sex. It's about that moment afterward, when the world stops. It just feels so safe... so safe.