Page 84 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“But no, I was always the one having to pay in that relationship. Provide for everything. And not gonna lie, it’s kind of nice having somebody, you know…” She trails off as she follows my steps toward the teahouse. I’m walking quite slowly, adjusting my naturally long stride to match her pace, something I’ve learned to do automatically with her. Part of me wants to know more, wants to understand what made her settle for so little. A woman who’s supporting a man who contributed nothing.

“Don’t get me wrong.” She continues, firmly now. “I don’t need to be a princess or a celebrity, you know? Either I’m not, or not that we’re…” She stumbles over her words, a flush creeping up her cheeks, turning them pink.

“I agree,” I say, rescuing her from the awkward moment. “You don’t seem like the typical celebrity.” It’s not like Pulse Point has never had one before. We’ve had our share of actors and musicians who’ve visited. But no one has been as humble or as sweet and real as Hannah. And I’ve never thought about what it means that someone hasn’t paid for her, hasn’t taken care of her. Isn’t that part of being in a relationship? Not to say you can’t split things, since there’s definitely a time and place for that, but for me? I want to take care of the person I’m with. And if occasionally they treat me, that’s fine, but if I’m out for dinner or getting food, it’s my responsibility. That’s how my mom raised me, even if everything else about my father’s expectations has felt like a weight on my shoulders.

Hearing that she’s never had that before makes me want to do it all the time. But that would be right, wouldn’t it? This one visit to Genevieve’s diner after work isn’t going to make many people raise their eyebrows. Dr. Sterling taking his patient out for a meal after she absolutely crushed her day at work before heading to bed to do it all again tomorrow? That’s just basic care… not whatever this tightness in my chest is.

We reach The Pointed Kettle, and I hold the door open for her. The bell above the door chimes softly as we enter. The shop is all exposed brick walls lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with tea tins and boxes in every color imaginable, their labels written in elegant scripts. Vintage and modern teapots are displayed on shelves, and a long counter runs along the back. Soft instrumental music plays through the speakers.

The scent hits me immediately… An overwhelming wave of grass, florals, honey, bergamot, hibiscus, and spices. It’s like a thousand different smells are smacking my senses at once, and I grimace, my hand going to my nose.

“Oh my God, this is amazing,” she gushes, her face lighting up as she inhales deeply, her eyes closing in what looks like bliss.

I grumble under my breath.

She glances at me, her expression immediately softening with concern, and gently nudges my shoulder with hers. “Come on, let’s just get the tea and get out of here. I can come back now that I know where it is.”

“No, take your time,” I say, even though my head is already starting to ache from the smell. I roll my shoulders, trying to release some tension. “I’m fine. I just need to get used to it.”

It’s not about trusting her to manage on her own. She’s proved she can handle herself on crutches. It’s just that the store is crowded, the floor is uneven in places, and crutches on a slick surface with people not watching where they’re going is a combination I’d rather supervise than hear about after the fact.

I suck it up, following her along the aisles, my hands shoved into my pockets.

She runs her fingers over different boxes of tea, then over to the teapots. Picking up a delicate white porcelain pot with hand-painted cherry blossoms, she sets it back down.

“My mom has a teapot kind of like this one,” she says, gesturing to a floral mosaic ceramic pot with gold trim. “It was my grandmother’s. Before it was passed down to her. I never met her; she passed when I was little, but Mom would always have tea with me and tell me stories about her and Dad.” She smiles, her entire face softening. “They’re the reason I believe in real love, you know? Not the Hollywood version. The kind where someone still brings you tea in bed after years of marriage. Where they know exactly how you take your tea without asking.”

Something twists in my gut. Her ex-boyfriend was a bigger asshat than I originally thought. He clearly never remembered her tea order.

The genuine love she has for her parents has a question spilling out of me as I think about my dad. “Have you ever felt pressure to do your job because of them?”

Her hand pauses on a box of green tea. “No, actually.” She shakes her head, a fond look in her eyes. “They wouldn’t care what the hell I did. I could work anywhere, and they would be proud of me. When I got cast in my first big role, you know what my dad said? He said, ‘That’s wonderful, sweetheart, but are you happy?’ Not ‘congratulations on the money’ or ‘you’re going to be famous.’ Just… are you happy?” A small smile plays on her lips. “I lucked out with my parents. They just want me to be okay. Especially after—” She gestures vaguely at her foot, at herself, and I know she means the accident, the aftermath, all of it.

I nod, but honestly, I don’t know what that feels like. I’ve felt the pressure to be an exact replica of my dad my entire life. Growing up hearing, “You’re going to be just like your dad,” and then both my parents putting that expectation on me that I’d be doing something important with my career. Following in his footsteps wasn’t a choice; it was an assumption.

“What about yours?”

“Lucky for me, I actually enjoy my role, and it’s far enough from my dad’s world that he can’t insert himself into my daily work.” I leave it at that. It’s more than I usually say to anyone, and I can already feel the familiar instinct to shut it down before it goes further. Clearing my throat, I run a hand through my hair and force a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Come on, let’s get your tea before I pass out from the smell.”

She laughs and picks up three different boxes—green, jasmine, and something called Rooibos. “My mom’s going to love these.”

I carry them as we make our way to the counter, and I notice Cove, an older woman with dreadlocks, a nose ring, and a long-sleeved dark dress. She’s the nicest person in town. She gives me the vibe of what maybe Hannah’s mom might be like: sweet and kind.

Cove does a double-take when she recognizes Hannah. To her credit, she doesn’t make a big deal of it, just smiles and asks if she needs help with anything else.

I reach for my wallet.

“Zac—” she starts, protest in her voice.

“Hannah,” I counter. “It’s tea. Let me.”

We lock eyes for a moment, and I can see her weighing whether to fight me on this. Finally, she sighs, but she’s smiling. “You’re stubborn.”

“Takes one to know one,” I reply, handing my card to Cove.

We walk out with a bag and a box of pie in my hands. Hannah moves beside me, and I unconsciously match her pace rather than my own.

“Thank you,” she says again, looking up at me as we pause at the corner. “For today. For all of it. You didn’t have to take me out after work.”