When I pulled the needle through, he hissed but didn’t flinch. “You’re good at this,” he murmured.
“Yeah, well, I’ve had practice on dumber patients.”
“None as handsome, though.”
I rolled my eyes, but I could feel the heat rising in my face. “You’re impossible.”
“Admit it,” he said, his grin softening into something tender. “You like it.”
When I tied the last knot, he leaned forward, brushing his nose against mine. “Thank you, Doctor.”
I remember the flip of my stomach, which I’d chalked up to worry and relief, but thinking back now, I knew it was just Eli. He always had that effect on me.
“Don’t make a habit of it.”
“I’ll try,” he whispered, but his smile said otherwise.
I was rinsing blood from my hands when I felt his gaze on my back.
“You’re staring,” I said without turning.
“Can you blame me?” His voice was soft, edged with something that wasn’t quite teasing anymore.
I turned, towel dangling from my hand, and found him watching me, eyes soft, lips parted, as if I’d performed a miracle instead of simply stitching him up. The space between us tightened until the air felt too thick to breathe.
“You should rest,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
He smiled. “You always say that when you don’t know what else to do.”
I started to protest, but then he leaned forward, hand slipping into my hair, pulling me closer until the towel fell to the floor. His lips brushed mine, tentative at first, testing. Then firmer. Hungrier.
The kiss tasted of toothpaste and coffee and something I’d missed long before I realized it was gone.
When I cupped his jaw, he sighed into my mouth, leaning into my touch as if it was the only thing holding him upright. “You don’t have to fix everything, Adrian,” he murmured. “You just have to be here.”
That undid me more than the kiss. Because that was the one thing I’d never been able to give him enough of—my presence.
He pulled me into his chest, and I melted against him, the heat of his bare skin against my shirt, the steady thump of his heart against my ribs. He kissed me again, deeperthis time, his tongue tracing the corner of my mouth before sliding against mine.
“Still shaking,” he whispered.
“Shut up,” I muttered, but I was smiling against his lips.
“I like it,” he said. “Means you feel something.”
And I did. God, I did. Fear, want, love—it all tangled into one unbearable ache that only he could soothe.
When I finally pulled back, forehead resting against his, I whispered, “You scared the hell out of me.”
He smiled faintly. “Guess we’re even, then.”
The hum of the MRI machine dragged me back. I pressed my hand to the cold wall and shut my eyes, feeling disoriented. The same sterile hallway that had once been my kingdom was now a coffin.
I’d always thought I understood this side of medicine. But I’d never stood here as the one waiting—counting breaths, counting prayers. The ache in my chest was sharp enough to sting.
“I’d give anything,” I murmured, “for you to sit on our counter again and tell me I’m shaking.”
Even years later, that memory gutted me. I thought I’d been the protector, the strong one—the doctor, the savior. But it was never me holding us together.
