Noah. Fuck, when did I start thinking of him by his first name?
“I’m fine,” I call back, wincing at how hoarse my voice sounds. “Just woke up.”
“May I come in? I’d like to check your vitals if that’s all right.”
The doctor in me knows this is sensible. The omega in me—the part I’ve suppressed for so long—thrills at the idea of an alpha coming into close proximity.
Down, girl.
“Just a minute.”
I dress in clean clothes from my duffel—loose sweatpants and a long-sleeved thermal top—though even these soft fabrics feel abrasive against my sensitized skin.
I move to the door, hesitating with my hand on the lock. Taking a deep breath, I turn it and open the door just enough to see Noah standing in the hallway, medical bag in hand.
He looks different today—less the stern attending physician and more just... a man. He’s wearing jeans and a simple henley shirt that stretches across his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His hair is slightly mussed, as if he’s run his hands through it repeatedly, and there’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw.
He looks me up and down in clinical assessment, but then his gaze lingers on my feet.
His lips curl into the first smile I’ve ever seen from him. “Cute socks.”
Embarrassed for no reason at all, I resist the urge to kick off the fuzzy green socks that I know look like something a toddler would pick out. “They’re comfortable.”
His smile widens. “I’ll bet.”
Then he shakes himself, seeming to realize that he isn’t here to banter. “May I come in?”
I step back, opening the door wider. “Yeah, of course.”
Noah enters, maintaining a careful distance between us. I appreciate the gesture, even as something primal in me yearns to close that gap.
Stop it, I scold myself. He’s a colleague. A temporary supervisor. Nothing more.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, setting his bag on a nearby table. “Any nausea? Dizziness? Cramping?”
“All the above,” I admit, as I settle into the rumpled sheets with my back against the headboard. “Though the nausea is mild. Mostly I’m just…really overheated.”
Noah nods, his clinical gaze assessing me. “Your body is adjusting to the absence of suppressants. It’s essentially going through withdrawal while simultaneously ramping up hormone production. It’s a lot for your system to handle.”
“I am aware of the physiological mechanisms at play, Dr. Klinkhart,” I say dryly. Though saying his name feels more like teasing than a display of professional courtesy. “I did graduate from medical school.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Fair enough, Dr. Chang. Then you know I need to check your vital signs.”
I flop down on the edge of the bed and hold out one arm. “Proceed.”
Noah takes a seat next to me on the bed, on the very edge so there is still ample space between me. As he approaches with a digital thermometer, and I tilt my head to allow him access to my ear, his proximity sends a wave of awareness through me I really wish I could ignore. For the first time, I get an inkling of his scent. It’s something citrusy and bright. Then my overexerted hindbrain fixates on the details of him, the controlled strength in his movements, the slight roughness of his fingertips as they brush my skin.
The thermometer beeps. “101.2,” he reads. “Elevated, but not dangerous.”
Next comes the blood pressure cuff. Noah wraps it around my arm, his touch clinical but somehow still sending sparks along my nerve endings. I focus on breathing evenly as the cuff tightens.
“120 over 80,” he reports. “Textbook normal, which is impressive given the circumstances.”
“I’ve always had excellent blood pressure,” I say, aiming for professional detachment despite the way my pulse jumps when his fingers press against my wrist to take my heart rate.
“Pulse is elevated, too. 115 beats per minute,” he notes after a moment. “Not unexpected. Are you feeling out of breath at all?”
“Well, I am now.”
