Page 97 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

Ruin this moment, when everything feels so easy, comfortable, and right? We’ve both got jobs to focus on, responsibilities. And like he said, before we know it, I’ll be back in LA, and he’ll be here. We’ll be worlds apart, living completely different existences. I’ll be traveling for work, and he’ll be back at the hospital.

The timer on his phone beeps loudly, making us both jump out of our thoughts. He stands quickly and moves to check the cookies. I’m grateful for the interruption and a little annoyed at myself for needing one.

“Did you want that cookie now?” he asks.

Truthfully, I do, but my stomach feels too full. “I think I need to let my food digest first. Come on, there’s this crime show I’ve heard about. The camera crew on set said it’s actually pretty good. Even Dain, who never admits to liking anything.” I grip my crutches and push myself up. “So, you might not completely hate it.”

He snorts. “I doubt that,” he mumbles under his breath, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m usually watching surgical technique videos or case studies.”

“Well, tonight, you’re watching crime. Patient’s orders.” I grin at him, already moving to the living room.

He follows without further argument, so I count his willingness to watch TV with me as a small victory.

I settle onto the sofa with a grateful sigh, propping my injured ankle up on the coffee table with a pillow underneath. He joins me, and I notice he sits closer than he usually does—not touching, but close enough that I can feel his warmth and catch a whiff of his aftershave.

Something about it feels different tonight. Or maybe it doesn’t, and since his house, it’s felt exactly like this—charged and unspoken—and I’ve run out of ways to pretend otherwise. He’s sat near me before, but this is just him choosing to be here.

“I bet you’re itching to get up and write notes or something,” I say, glancing at his profile. I look at the strong line of his jaw, which has a five o’clock shadow forming.

He laughs. “Yeah, I feel guilty just sitting around doing nothing. Like I should be reviewing pre-op imaging or reading the latest journal articles or something productive.”

“You are working. You’re about to bring me some chocolate chip cookies and eat them with me on the sofa. That counts.” I bump my shoulder against his gently. “Doctor’s orders are usually to rest.”

He laughs again, shaking his head, and I catch the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You know I don’t mean that.”

“I know. But I’m grateful that you’ve been so good to me. Taking time away from the hospital. It couldn’t have been easy.” I watch his face soften as I say it. “How does it feel? Not being in the OR every day, not having your regular surgical schedule?”

He exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping as he sinks deeper into the sofa cushions. “Well, truthfully, I thought it’d be a lot worse than it is. I miss aspects of it. Like the challenge of complex cases. But I guess this has shown me that I’m more than just the hospital doctor.” He sounds almost surprised by his own admission, as if he’s realizing this truth as he speaks it aloud. “I didn’t think I would be. I’ve been doing this for years now.”

I listen, watching the way his hands gesture slightly as he tries to articulate something he’s clearly never said out loud before.

“I guess this is challenging me in ways I didn’t expect. It’s been kind of nice to do something different; to step out of the OR for a bit and realize I can still be a good surgeon even when I’m not operating. I always thought that surgery was everything, that my value was in how many cases I could do, how complex the procedures were. But I’m seeing that’s not the whole picture.” He pauses, his fingers drumming against his thigh. “It’s made me think about other things too. Like how much of my life I’ve structured around proving something. To Peltz, to the hospital, to my dad.” He shakes his head slightly. “Maybe I don’t have to keep quite so much distance to feel like my own person. But I don’t know. It’s still new.”

He says it almost to himself. I don’t push it, and I let him talk whatever’s on his mind out loud.

“The other thing is, I’ve essentially done all I can in my current role except take over Mr. Peltz’s position.”

I laugh, thinking about Peltz. A well-meaning man who’s a little oblivious and completely convinced he’s doing everyone a favor at all times. “Oh, you could do that if you wanted to. You’d be amazing at it.”

“I know, but do I really want that?” he counters, turning to face me fully. Our knees are almost touching now.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

He holds my gaze, and there’s something intense in his expression, something raw and honest. “No. I don’t. That would entail a lot of ‘peopling.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers, showing me his more playful side. “And as you know, that’s not my strong suit. It’s not something I enjoy. I don’t want to manage other surgeons in other wards and deal with hospital politics and budgets and attend endless committee meetings. I became a surgeon because I love the actual work of fixing things. The less administrative crap, the better.”

I nod. “That makes total sense. You became a surgeon to be hands on, not to play with paper.” Warmth spreads through my chest watching him talk about it. The way his whole face changes when he’s saying something he actually believes, the way he stops filtering himself.

“Exactly.” He looks relieved that I get it, that he doesn’t have to explain further.

Swallowing roughly, he suddenly stands and disappears into the kitchen. I pull the blanket over my lap, and he returns with a plate piled high with cookies and a tea for me. He sets them on the coffee table and settles back beside me, closer than before.

“I didn’t need that many.” Smirking, I pick one up along with my tea.

“Yeah, well, seems like I actually don’t mind this show.” He reaches for a cookie himself. His knee presses against mine, deliberately this time; it’s not wishful thinking. I know the difference between accidental contact and this. We’ve had plenty of unintended touches since that night at his, and this is different. He put it there and left it there, and neither of us has moved. “So, I might be here for a bit. At least until this episode ends.”

I bite into the cookie, trying to focus on the taste and not the way my heart skips when his attention drifts to me.

When it ends, I don’t want to move. I want to start another episode and stay right here, with his knee against mine, the plate between us slowly emptying. This is the closest we’ve been since his house—not physically, but in the way the air feels between us. Like something we kept at a distance for so long has quietly slipped back in.