By the time I step into exam room five, I’ve rehearsed the script in my head half a dozen times. Professional, detached, routine, but the sight of him stops me anyway. Even here, under fluorescent bulbs and beige walls, he’s magnetic and he knows it.
What I don’t expect is the way his eyes sweep over me, lingering too long. My dark dress under the white coat, hair smoothed into place, lipstick a shade deeper than usual. The weight of his gaze says he notices every detail, that my armor was never just for me. We’ve both made an effort for each other. We both know, and neither of us says a word.
I clear my throat, smooth the chart. “Mr. Ashton. How’s your vision been since our last visit?”
He swallows, harder than the question requires. “Good,” he says, but the word feels caught, like it had to fight its way out. I keep going through the motions, asking about headaches, flashes, floaters, the lines on a page. He answers, but his voice keeps faltering, his confidence eroding. He was cocky the first time, smirking through the pain. Now it feelstoo real, too close. It’s like we’re aware of our bodies in a way we weren’t last time.
I shift the chart to note something on the computer and it slips from the desk, clattering to the floor. He bends at the same moment I do, and our hands brush as we both reach for it. The contact is brief, a spark, but it burns through me like an open flame. We both pull backtoo fast, as if burned. My breath catches. I force a smile, smoothing my coat as I retreat to the monitor.
“The scans look healthy,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Gladsomethingabout me is,” he mutters, wry.
The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. His eyes find mine, and for one suspended moment it’s easier, the mixture of laughter in the atmosphere. But as it settles it's replaced by heat, recognition all tangled in the air. It makes me almost sick to my stomach, the rush of adrenaline. Can you haveso muchchemistry with someone you're ill from it? I've never contemplated the possibility until this moment.
What unsettles me most is that I don’t even see Obelus anymore. Not the persona, not the voice that commands stadiums. In this room, he’s just Rafe Ashton, just a man. But one that short circuits me when he’s near, without even trying.
“Alright,” I say, forcing my tone back into something clinical, “let’s check your retina one last time. If you'll place your head in the chin rest.”
He shifts into place, posture patient but tense. I adjust the light, angle the scope, lean close. His breath fans against my cheek, mint and something sweet, glossed, almost fruity. He came prepared for this. He even thought about every aspect of his scent down to his lips, his mouth, the same way I thought about my hair, my coat, my lipstick. Only he followed through better, prepared for every angle. I start to wonder if my breath still has a hint of coffee or the pen I was chewing on just a moment ago andthe self-conscious heat rises fast, crawling up my neck, choking me at the worst possible second. I muffle a cough, just once, but it jerks the lamp. I pull back, try to swallow it down, cough again, mortified. “Sorry,” I mutter, fumbling with the dials.
Before I can recover, he’s already moving, standing tall beside me. “Do you need water?” His voice is concerned, patient. “I saw some in the lobby.”
I shake my head, about to refuse, but he’s gone, then back, before I can gather myself, holding out a paper cup.
“Here.”
I take it, fingers brushing his for half a second, and sip. Cool water, nothing more. But when I look up, he’s right there, closer than I'd realized at first. My breath won’t even out and his gaze doesn’t waver.
We both linger on nothing more than this, a cup of water between us, the hush of the clinic outside the door, the nearness impossible to ignore. The silence between us is broken by a brisk knock, we both immediately take distance from each other like we know from instinct what we were inching toward might imply. The door swings open before I can answer.
“Mr. Ashton,” Conrad beams, striding in like he owns the place. He holds out a hand, and Rafe obliges, a firm exchange. “I just wanted to come by and check on you myself. Here, we make sure ourhigh-profilepatients get the very best care.”
My stomach sinks. I open my mouth to explain, but Conrad’s already frowning. “Dr. Sawadzka, you booked him in a normal slot? Really? We could have arrangedout-of-hours, something more discreet.”
Heat rushes up my neck. Before I can defend myself, Rafe straightens with authority, voice even but firm. “No, I asked for this time slot. It works best for me. I actually came straight from Philadelphia after a show to be seen byDr. Sawadzka, specifically. She's worth the trip. ”
Conrad’s brows lift, caught off guard. He clears his throat, nods in approval like he’d planned it that way all along. “Well then, I’ll let youtwo continue.” He produces a scrap of paper and a pen. “My wife’s a fan. A quick signature?”
Rafe takes it without hesitation, scrawls something elegant and quick, and hands it back with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Much appreciated,” Conrad says, tucking it away. “Carry on.” The door clicks shut behind him.
The second it does, Rafe flips him off, middle finger high and casual. I burst into laughter, hand over my mouth to smother it.
“Stop,” I hiss between trying to stifle a laugh. “He might see and I have to work with him after you leave.”
“Shame,” he says, lips trying to dampen his own laugh now.
The air is still heavy and charged but now it carries our laughter too, like a secret no one else gets to share. I clear my throat and force my hands steady on the lamp again. We complete the examination, and when it's finished I let out a quick, “Thank you… for the water,” avoiding his gaze.
Every step like that makes him closer to human. Not the untouchable figure from the stage, not the voice that turns stadiums into churches. Just a man who noticed I coughed and thought to fetch a cup of water. I don’t know how to reconcile it, if it’s a relief, or if it’s more dangerous. Because my body still aches from whatDominikdid to me last night, none of this feels normal.But I can’t seem to stop.
“Of course.” He nods, the way his eyes hold mine makes me want to look away, but I don't. Almost like a challenge accepted, unwilling to continue being controlled by his glances. His gaze still lingers, but it no longer feels like I’m being burned alive.
He smirks faintly. “Want me to go find that paper? Rip it up? I could probably manage it. Dazzle him with compliments about this place and slip it out from under him.”
I can’t help laughing, shaking my head. “No. His wife’s actually nice. Why she married Conrad, I’ll never understand. Maybe something spectacular in the bedroom I don’t know about. Money’s also nice, I guess.”
