"Just your body adjusting." I turn away, write something meaningless on her chart to give my hands something to do that isn't touching her again.
Blood pressure next. I grab the cuff and wrap it around her upper arm, and she flinches at the contact.
"Sorry," I mutter. "Cold hands."
"It's okay." Her voice is soft. Almost shy. "I remember your hands are always cold. Medical school thing, right? Bad circulation from too much studying?"
She remembers. She remembers my hands.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. Six years and she remembers.
I pump the cuff, watch the numbers climb, try to focus on literally anything except the fact that her arm is bare and soft and I can see the faint blue of veins under her pale skin. The cuff tightens around her bicep, and I'm hyperaware of every inch of her. The way her breath catches. The way her fingers curl into the paper covering. The way her scent spikes with something that isn't quite fear but isn't quite comfort either.
"Breathe normally," I tell her, even though my own breathing is anything but normal.
The number settles. Elevated. Everything about her is elevated. Pulse, blood pressure, temperature, pheromones. Her body is a storm building strength.
"I need to check your glands," I say, and I hate how rough my voice sounds. "The ones in your neck. They swell during transition."
She tilts her head without hesitation, exposing the long line of her throat, and I have to physically lock my knees to keep from swaying toward her.
The curve of her neck. The pale expanse of skin. The rapid flutter of her pulse visible beneath the surface.
I've thought about kissing that spot approximately eight thousand times in six years. I'm thinking about it now.
"This might be sensitive," I warn, more for myself than for her.
I press my fingers to the sides of her neck, feeling for the omega scent glands nestled just below her jaw. They're swollen, hot to the touch, producing pheromones at a rate her body can't regulate yet. My thumbs rest against her pulse point. Racing. Fluttering. Alive.
She makes a sound. Small. Breathy. Almost a whimper.
My hands freeze. Every muscle in my body goes rigid.
"Did that hurt?" The words come out low. Dangerous.
"No." Her eyes meet mine, and they're dark. Dilated. Vulnerable. "The opposite."
Fuck.
I pull back like she burned me. Put three feet of space between us in a single step. Shove my trembling hands deep in my coat pockets because they're shaking and I need her to not see that. Need her to not know that touching her just now took every ounce of self-control I possess.
"Your glands are active," I manage. Professional. Clinical. Every word costs me. "That's normal for this stage of transition."
What I don't say: Touching them probably felt good because omega glands are sensitive during transition. Stimulating them releases endorphins. It's a biological response.
What I really don't say: I want to put my mouth there. I want to kiss that spot where your pulse is racing. I want to taste your skin and make you make that sound again and again until you're breathless with it.
I turn back to the counter. Grip it hard enough that my knuckles go white. Breathe through my nose until the urge to close the distance between us fades to something manageable.
"I need to take blood," I say to the wall because I can't look at her right now. "Check your hormone levels. Make sure nothing dangerous is happening."
"Okay."
I grab the supplies. Turn back to her. She's watching me with those big hazel eyes, and there's something in her expression I can't quite read. Trust, maybe. Or hope. Or just exhaustion.
Whatever it is, it makes my chest ache.
I tie the tourniquet around her upper arm. Find the vein. Slide the needle in with practiced efficiency. Watch her blood flow into the vial, dark and rich, and try not to think about how intimate this is. How I'm literally holding her life in my hands right now.
