Page 21 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“You’re really annoying and mean, you know that?” She blinks slowly.

That makes me smile, a real smile that catches me off guard. The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. “I don’t need to be liked, Miss Morgan.”

The words come out soft, so I clear my throat, trying to regain my usual detached and professional tone. But something about her… this stubborn, half-conscious woman who just had surgery and is already planning her return to work, disarms me completely.

“How about I review you first thing in the morning?”

Why am I volunteering to come in early when I should be distancing myself from this situation, not entrenching myself deeper in it? But then I remember that Peltz assigned me to her care, specifically. I’m locked in whether I like it or not. There’s no passing her off to the resident on duty. She’s my responsibility now.

“What time?” She perks up slightly, and I can see hope flicker across her features.

“Seven.”

I expect her to argue, to ask for six or even earlier. Hannah Morgan doesn’t strike me as someone who accepts anything less than what she wants. But she just closes her eyes and nods, a small, satisfied smile pulling at her lips. “Thank you.” She pauses, her breathing already evening out as sleep pulls her under again. “Don’t forget to call my mom,” she mumbles, the words barely audible as drowsiness takes over.

The way she surrenders to sleep now reminds me of how she went under in the operating room, that moment when she stopped fighting and simply trusted… me. Her heart rate had spiked when I stood close, the monitors betraying her awareness of me. But in a way to calm her, I leaned in and did something incredibly stupid. I covered her hand. Actually extended my fingers toward hers like some kind of comforting gesture I’ve never made with a patient in my entire career.

What the hell was I thinking?

I’ll blame her blue eyes that held vulnerability and made the ground shift beneath me. Made me want to offer comfort instead of just my clinical competence.

I’ve operated on hundreds of patients, but I’ve never been attracted to one. Not once. Not even an inch of interest.

Until now.

The realization sits heavy in my chest as I turn away from her bed, nodding curtly to the recovery nurses before heading toward the locker room.

I change out of scrubs, my body going through the motions while my mind stays in that recovery room. The navy fabric gets balled up and tossed in the laundry hamper. I pull on my pants, shirt, and jacket.

I need to call her mother.

The thought rolls through my mind as I walk down the hallway to my office. It’s not my responsibility. But I keep seeing her face in that pre-op room. The fear she was trying to hide. The way she admitted she was scared, only because I actually stopped and listened.

My office is exactly as I left it hours ago, with nothing out of place, just a clean wooden desk, diplomas, and awards placed around the room.

For some reason, the idea of calling her mother makes my palms sweat more than calling a spouse ever has. I’ve delivered news to many family members—good news, bad news, devastating news. I’ve held steady through tears, anger, even threats. But this? This isn’t about delivering medical information. This is about crossing a line. This simple post-op call.

My hands are actually trembling.

I recognize what’s happening. She trusted me with her fear, and now I’m considering inserting myself into her family dynamics. That’s not professional care. That’s entanglement.

I flick through her file instead. My eyes catch on the intake form, and I find myself opening a new document on my computer. I need to focus on what I can control—her medical care. Everything else is off limits. I’ll type up her surgical notes. That’ll get me back in the right headspace.

But even as I open the document, I know it won’t be enough to stop thinking about her.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, muscle memory taking over. The operation was textbook. Displaced lateral malleolus fracture, successful open reduction, and internal fixation, two screws and a plate, minimal tissue trauma. The words flow easier than normal, each detail crisp in my mind. I finish the notes at lightning speed, the familiar clinical language settling my nerves like a sedative. Now, I’m back in control.

Picking up the phone, I dial her mother before I can overthink it. It rings three times. I glance at the clock; it’s been three hours since Hannah went under. Did I wake her mother up?

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answers alertly.

“Mrs. Morgan?”

“Yes?”

Her breath hitches, but I press on.

“This is Dr. Sterling from Pulse Point Medical Center. Your daughter is resting in recovery. The operation went smoothly. No complications.”