The steadiness in his voice loosens something in my chest. I slide closer, resting my head on his shoulder, breathing him in. The familiar scent and the solid warmth feel like certainty in a world that suddenly doesn’t.
The drive passes quicker than I expect, and soon we’re pulling into Dr. Wakefield’s office. The hour wasn’t bad at all, but I’m grateful to stretch my legs when we step out of the car.
Inside, though, my body betrays me.
My leg bounces as we sit in the office waiting room. The sound of my heel tapping against the floor seems louder than it probably is.
“Hey,” Mercs murmurs, leaning closer. “Don’t be nervous. I’m right here.”
But before I can answer, the door swings open.
“Good morning,” Dr. Wakefield greets, stepping in with that same calm presence that makes everything feel a notch lesscatastrophic. He rounds his desk and takes a seat. “How was the trip?”
“Easy,” I reply. “Hardly any traffic.”
“Good.” He pulls out a notepad. “Have you had another episode since we last spoke?”
I shake my head. “No. Just the two. And the other symptoms.”
He nods thoughtfully. “And weight loss?”
“About seven pounds. Maybe a little more.”
He studies me more closely now. “Your face looks slightly puffy. Have you noticed that?”
I nod again.
He hums softly as he writes. “Decreased appetite, fatigue…” His pen pauses. “And a decreased sex drive?”
The words hit like a dropped plate, and heat floods my face.
My stomach sinks.
I don’t need to look at Mercs to feel the shift beside me, but I do anyway.
He’s already staring at me.
I wince. “Yes.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before he looks away. It’s not anger exactly, not quite, more confusion. Or maybe it’s hurt. Maybe it’s both.
I should have told him.
Dr. Wakefield continues, unaware of the silent exchange happening beside me. “Before I speculate, I want to run specialised blood work. We’ll check hormone levels and the function of the hypothalamus and pituitary. A few additional panels as well. If I’m correct, it may be an imbalance affecting multiple systems.”
“Is it fixable?” I ask quietly.
He tilts his head. “Let’s see what the results say first. I don’t want to make promises without data.”
I nod. “Of course.”
“I’ll have the nurses draw blood now. Results by tomorrow afternoon. I’ve scheduled you for four p.m.”
Relief mixes with dread, but at least there is a timeline.
“Thank you,” I say, standing with Mercs.
We step out into the hallway, the door clicking shut softly behind us.
