But silence is your only answer,
Still I breathe your name… tonight.
The comments scroll so fast I can’t read them all:
"this is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard i stfg"
"if you are ignoring him PLEASE stop i’m begging"
"I’m pregnant. Screaming. Crying!!!!"
My chest feels torn open, like my heart is beating in two places at once, one in the bedroom with Dominik, and one out there on that stage with him. I slide down the door until I’m curled on the tile, phone pressed to my ear like I could crawl inside it. His voice is heavy and soft at once, dripping over the words like a confession.
Dominik and Zosia sleep on the other side of the wall. I should go back. But for three minutes and twenty seconds, I belong to the sound of his voice. I can’t pretend otherwise.
The last note fades, leaving only the roar of the crowd in the shaky fan video. I sit on the tile floor, phone pressed to my chest, throat tight enough to hurt. I should delete the text. I should go back to bed, to warmth and safety and the man who actually knows me. I stare at the empty reply box for a long time, pulse hammering in my ears. Every warning voice in me says no and yet—
It’s a beautiful cover.
Four words, safe, neutral enough. Nothing that could get me called into an ethics review, nothing that can’t be brushed aside as polite. But it’s still an answer, the reply he's been looking for. The hand reaching out, no emergency of the eye required. I hit send before I can think better of it. The message whooshes away, and I’m left staring at the screen like I’ve just stepped over a line I swore I wouldn’t cross. I wish I could snatch it back. I stare at it, tempted to delete the thread entirely, to pretend I never pressed send. Before I can even lock the screen, it lights again.
you listened.
Two words. That’s all, just the certainty of it. My breath sticks in my throat. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. Because he’s right, I did. I broke my own line and nowhe knows it. I press the phone to my chest, squeeze my eyes shut until the tiles blur behind my eyelids. Then I force myself to stand, to slip back down the hall.
By the time the alarm on Dominik’s phone trills, I’ve only dozed in fits. He blinks awake slowly, scrubs a hand over his face, then reaches for me. For a moment I stiffen under his arm, the glow of my phone still burning faintly under the pillow, but he just draws me closer and murmurs something about coffee.
I help Zosia find her shoes, braid her hair, wrap her lunch. She chatters about her spelling test and the rock she’s bringing for show-and-tell, and somewhere between the stove and the schoolbag I start to feel normal again.
When she’s ready, Dominik pulls me in by the waist, flour on his fingers, and kisses my temple. “I could get used to seeing this in the morning,” he says, voice low, eyes warm. “My eyes are blessed.”
I laugh, leaning into him without thinking, forgetting everything else for a heartbeat. Just warmth, just this small, steady world. He means it. He’s the one here, holding me, the one who reaches for me over and over, through everyversion of me.
Then the clock nudges me. I have to get home, shower, and get ready for the clinic. My stomach tightens. In a few hourshe’llbe there, Obelus, having broken down my defenses just enough, finally.
I try to tell myself it's nothing, it’s all professional. That there’s no reason I’m taking extra time with my hair, with my makeup, grateful for the early wake-up call of school runs and sleepovers. But a part of me knows it's not just routine or armor. It’s a little thrill, a brush against fire I don’t intend to touch, just one I intend to watch smolder.
Chapter 17
All Choked Up
The clinic seems louder than usual the moment I step inside. My pulse is already skittering, nerves wound tight from not enough sleep and the sensation of an extra layer of makeup on my face. I tried to convince myself it was “practical” to hide the dark circles under my eyes but I know the truth. The front desk is swamped, Conrad’s voice carrying from down the hall, warm but commanding. Two of the partners are here too, shaking hands with a nervous-looking candidate for the retina fellowship. A day of observation.Perfect.
I straighten my coat, clutching my chart like a lifeline. Margie, our lead receptionist, looks up from her desk as I pass, her expression bright. “Well, don’t you look lovely this morning, Doctor!”
Her smile is kind, genuine, but it lands like a pebble in my throat, that she notices. I’m reviewing a chart when I hear it and freeze.His voice.Smooth, measured, edged with something darker the mic never caught, cutting straight through the buzz of the lobby. I perch on a stool just inside exam room three, ridiculously attempting to hide after I've gone to all this effort. Suddenly, nerves have their claws in me, but I try in vain to calm myself. I exhale, close my eyes as I sit there, legs crossed, the dress I chose instead of scrubs fits me neatly, pen pressed absently between my teeth. To anyone watching, I probably look focused. But my mind is white noise, nothing sticking, nothing threading together.
The tech’s voice carries down the hall, cheerful, routine: “Mr. Ashton? We’ll get you set up.” I don’t dare glance toward the doorway, but the sweep of motion at the edge of my vision tells me enough. He passes by, tall and unhurried, following the tech toward a room.
I can’t read a thing on this ultrasound imaging; my periphery catches him, and I hold my breath. This is not the man I examined at five in the morning, not the half-broken figure still smeared in body paint and sweat, voice thick from being on stage and the ER. Not the man who rasped through his pain while I pressed on his eye, muscles clenched.
No, this morning, he is something else entirely. Sleek and composed. Black shirt fitted, threaded with zippers and buttons that look more like art than clothing. His scent lingers after him, cloves, musk, a sea breeze beneath it. Something I want to sink into, halfway between sweetness and pure bite.
The top of his hair is pulled back into a knot, the rest spilling over his shoulders, catching the clinic’s weak light like a spotlight following him inside. The funniest thing is it isn’t just me; I can feel it in the way conversations falter when he walks past, how the air seems to lean toward him just like it did the first night I watched him in that tiny venue.
My pen taps against the edge of the desk. He’s brought the stage here, and the building isn’t big enough to contain him. I’m expected to be professional. To treat him like any other patient. My pen stills. My body knows before my mind can catch up, I can feel his gaze linger as he passes the exam room door, like the sun has shifted to burn me down.
I tell myself to focus, to breathe, to be the doctor in this office. But my pulse only hammers harder, every beat spelling out what I won’t admit to myself:that I wanted him to look.
