Page 78 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Then I switch to my email, working through them. One from Mr. Peltz checking on Hannah’s status. I reply with a carefully worded update, emphasizing her professionalism and recovery progress. One from the hospital updating my new schedule. One from pharmaceutical reps that I delete after a brief read.

I hear movement behind me and soft murmurs of “easy does it” and “we’ve got you.” It’s too late when I look up. Jaina and Mia are already helping Hannah out of bed and guiding her toward the makeup chair, supporting her weight between them.

Something hot and uncomfortable fires inside me, irritation that I didn’t do it myself, that it’s supposed to be my job to help her, to be the one she leans on. But I force myself to take a breath and calm down.

That’s part of myself I hate, the flaw I’m constantly trying to manage. Once I’m invested in something, I can’t stop myself from trying to control every detail.

So, I stay seated, to trust that they’re capable of caring for her right now, and watch Hannah’s face instead. She’s tired but laughing softly at something Mia says into her ear.

I finish my notes and my wrap, then sit back, watching the practiced choreography as Mia and Jaina apply makeup and fix her hair. They work with quick efficiency, brushes and sponges and spray bottles moving. Jaina jokes around, and when Hannah laughs, it makes something in my chest swell.

I close my laptop and gather up the trash from lunch. Karyn helps me.

“You’re good with her,” she says.

“It’s my job,” I reply, but deep down, I know it’s more than that, and from the look Karyn gives me, so does she.

“Mmhmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Just be careful. Dain’s watching her.”

The warning is clear, protective, and I respect her for it, even as it bothers me. “I’m not—”

“Sure, you’re not.” She pats my arm and wanders off to Hannah. “Ready to head back?”

One look at Hannah’s face confirms the medication has kicked in. The brightness is back in her blue eyes, the pained tightness gone from around her mouth. Her shoulders are relaxed instead of hunched with tension. Her smile reaches all the way up to her eyes again. And it makes me want to see her smile all the time.

I’m in front of her before I consciously decide to move, my body acting on instinct, lifting her out of the chair as Mia and Jaina grab their supply bags and cases, organizing their tools. My hands snatch her waist, and she holds on to my shoulders. This time, her hand loops around my neck, and compared to this morning when she was gripping my shoulders in pain, this is making me want to stay here like this for longer.

“I can scoot,” she protests, but there’s no heat in it.

“You could,” I agree. “But why waste the energy?”

She doesn’t argue further, just shakes her head with a smile. And that to me is a victory, because she’s enjoying this just as much as me.

I set her down carefully outside, testing her weight distribution and adjusting her injured foot on the platform, making corrections until she’s satisfied. “Let’s go. I want to nail this in one take.”

The fierce determination in her voice sends a jolt of attraction straight through me. I want to kiss her right here—fuck, I want to taste that determination the way I already know I could. The memory of exactly how she kisses back makes it worse.

Instead, I clench my teeth and remind myself for the thousandth time: professional boundaries.

I reach out to smooth a wrinkle in her dress, my fingers grazing the fabric at her hip. The brief contact, even through the material, sends tingles racing up my fingertips and straight to places I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about.

Quickly retracting my hand, I tuck it into my pocket, my fingers curling into a fist, waiting for her to move ahead, needing the physical and mental distance before I do something stupid like pull her back against me.

I’ve never thought of her job as being particularly difficult or demanding. Honestly, I’d written it off as fluffy entertainment work. But watching the behind-the-scenes reality, seeing how much physical and mental energy it requires, how many people depend on her to set the tone and keep things moving, how she has to maintain enthusiasm and creativity all while managing pain and a dick director, has given me a newfound respect for her career. It’s not as easy as I ignorantly assumed. She’s not shallow as I judged her to be.

And that realization makes me feel like an asshole. I wrote her job off the same way I’ve let other people define mine—by the surface level version of it. I’ve been so focused on the surgical schedule, the case complexity, the metrics that prove I’m worth the Sterling name, that I haven’t stopped to ask whether I actually like who I’ve become in service of all that. Whether twenty-four joint replacements a month and no vacation and a disciplinary file is what I had in mind when I decided to be a doctor.

Watching her work today—the way she reads a room, adjusts, makes people feel seen. I keep thinking about what she said about wanting to direct. About knowing what she’s meant for and being too scared to reach for it.

I wonder when I stopped asking myself the same question.

I follow several paces behind her as we make our way back to set, giving her space but staying close enough to help if needed, or to catch her if she falls.

We reach the set, where the crew has repositioned equipment to one of the couple’s houses, and she does exactly what she said she would. She nails it in one take; her energy infectious, her directions clear and specific, her instincts flawless. “Teresa and Christos, what happened today?”

Christos holds Teresa’s waist close, supporting each other.

“We ran out of time to get all the tiles down,” she sniffs out.