“No, Zahra.” I sigh. “What do they say about trouble?”
She comes closer and lowers her voice. “Troubled bad boys, my dear, are absolutely amazing in bed.”
“Zahra!” I playfully shove her away from me. “He lied to get into an exam room. That alone disqualifies him.”
“That’s not what disqualifies him,” she counters, knowing I’m not big on letting people into my life. “I’m telling you, let your hair down and fuck him, you don’t need to marry him and have his babies.”
I scoff and turn back to my chart, pretending my pulse didn’t kick up a fraction at the notion. “He’s reckless,” I add. “Pushy. Cocky. Arrogant. And he absolutely does not understand the concept of boundaries.”
Zahra smiles wider. “You noticedallthat in ten minutes?”
“Five,” I correct.
She laughs softly. “And yet, you’re still thinking about him.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it, because the most infuriating part of this conversation is that she’s right. I can’t stop thinking about him towering over me. Too relaxed. Too confident. Like he knew exactly how much space he took up and wasn’t going to apologize for a single inch of it. And I enjoyed being surrounded by him.
He’s trouble.
But he’s also… charming in that dangerous, unpolished way that sets off every internal alarm while simultaneously making you want to step closer. He’s a bit older than me, I assume, by the few strands of gray hair erupting at his temples, making him devastatingly handsome. He’s tall—well over six feet—and built like a wall you could hide behind in a storm. His broad shoulders and lean muscles speak of a strength earned the hard way, not sculpted in a gym merely for show. Tattoos tell years of stories, running from his fingertips and up his forearms before disappearing beneath his shirt. He has a body that looks like it has been tested time and time again, only to prove that he will survive.
And those eyes… Soft blue and disarming. They don’t match the rest of him at all. They are too gentle for the scars that riddle his body. Too perceptive for the lazy grin that stretches from the corner of his lips. They look like they’ve seen far more than any man should, but worse, they are longing to experience more.
Men like him don’t walk into your life quietly. Theycrashinto it. I’ve seen enough of them, and I’ve definitely dated enough of them.They’re all the same.Men who run headfirst into danger because standing still leaves them alone with their thoughts. Men who chase adrenaline and chaos because silence leaves too much room for the ghosts that riddle their pasts. They are always running from something or trying to fill a void they don’t know how to. Either way, they leave nothing but damage in their wake.
“It’s not like he’s staying,” I blurt, more to myself than Zahra. “And even if he were, I don’t have time for something like that.”
Zahra arches her brow. “You say that like you would make time for anyone.”
“I make time for Mr. Buzzington,” I quip with a chuckle. “And he never leaves me unsatisfied or heartbroken.”
She studies me for a moment as she laughs, her expression softening. “Maybe give him a chance. Just be careful, Blake.”
I nod. “Always am.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The rest of the day barrels forward with the same relentless, unforgiving pace of emergency medicine, demanding everything I have and then some. Patients rotate through. Crises flare and fade. I lose myself in the monotonous routine of vitals, charts, and treatment plans.
A subtle prickle creeps up the back of my neck. I try to dismiss it as leftover adrenaline, hours spent teetering on the brink, but I know better. This is unease, not residual paranoia. This is my gut instinctually telling me that something is wrong.
When I twist my neck, a man is staring at me from the waiting room. He’s in his mid-forties, maybe. His posture is relaxed, and his hands are folded loosely in his lap. He is well-dressed, but not ostentatious. His gaze tracks me as I move down the hall, deliberately watching my every step, like he’s memorizing everything about me.Don’t jump to conclusions.My body doesn’t listen, my stomach tightens, and a familiar spike of fear blooms in my chest.
I keep my head low, pretending not to notice him. When I glance back a moment later, he’s still there, watching. He isn’t hiding how intensely focused he is on me, either. When I open the door to my left, I step into the supply room. I take a moment to breathe, my hands wrapped tightly around the cool metal shelves as I try to steady myself through the spike of panic.Get it together, Blake.
I open the closet door, ready to exit, and a tiny, startled scream wafts over my lips when I find him on the other side. My heart slams so hard it steals my breath. Every muscle inmy body tightens, ready to scream, run, or fight if I have to. He lifts his arm, and I flinch.
“Need help for my son.” His accent is thick, but his tone is polite and concerned. He gestures toward the waiting room. It takes my brain a moment to catch up and for his words to actually register. He’s not a threat. This isn’t a demand. It’s a request.
My heart is still racing so fast that I can feel it in my throat as my hands tremble slightly. It takes a conscious effort to school my expression into something calm and professional as I silently remind myself that not every man approaching me is here to hurt me. “Yes,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. “Of course. I can help you.”
Relief floods his face immediately. “Thank you. He has fever. Very high.”
“Let’s take a look.” I smile, gesturing the way to an exam room.
As we walk, the adrenaline slowly ebbs, leaving behind a familiar, bone-deep exhaustion. I hate this constant state of alertness and vigilance. This instinctive fear overwhelming my life has nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with survival.
The boy is small and curls into his father’s side when he pulls him back into his lap on the exam table. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are glassy. I kneel before them, switching mental gears without effort. I examine him—listening to his lungs and checking his temperature—and my focus changes. This, I know how to handle. My fear recedes, and concentration takes over. Infection. Dehydration. Both are completely treatable. When I finish, Istand and offer the father reassurance. I explain the plan carefully in simple terms. He listens and nods with gratitude shining bright in his eyes.
