Page 57 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“Do you want something else before I make you something to eat?” I ask, needing to move, to do something with my hands.

She nods, almost shyly. “I’d love some tea.”

I look around, rubbing the back of my neck, feeling awkward. “I don’t know how to make tea,” I admit.

She smiles, and it’s warm and genuine. “In the top right cupboard, I have different types of tea. It just needs boiling water, and you just leave the tea bag in there. I like mine strong with honey.”

I turn to leave, walking to open the cupboard and find boxes stacked haphazardly, reading the names printed on the front: English Breakfast, Green Tea, Lemon, Peppermint.

“What flavor?” I call out over my shoulder.

“Green, please,” she says.

“And you leave the bag in?” I ask again, just to confirm, because this seems weird to me.

“Yes, please. I’ll take it out when it’s dark enough.”

I don’t understand this shit, but whatever. I follow the instructions carefully. Boil the water in the electric kettle, drop the tea bag into a mug—one I just cleaned—and pour the steaming water over it, and then add a spoonful of honey.

She needs food. I open the cupboards one by one. There’s really not much here—bread, cheese, milk, crackers, sugar, flour, baking soda, random spices. The most basic, random things.

“What do you eat?” I call out, bewildered.

“I’ve run out of a lot of it. But it was fully stocked when I arrived here,” she calls back. “So, I just… yeah. I haven’t gotten around to ordering food yet.”

“I’ll make a sandwich, and then bake some cookies,” I say as I walk the tea over to her, carefully so it doesn’t spill. “You need something to eat.”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise as I make her a quick sandwich and then lower the mug and plate to the coffee table, placing it within easy reach.

“You know how to make cookies?” she asks skeptically.

“Everyone knows how to make cookies.”

“Well, not everyone knows how to make them from scratch and not from a box,” she eyes me like she doesn’t believe I know how to cook anything, “especially someone who needed instructions on green tea.”

“That was one time,” I tease, meeting her gaze. “I cook from scratch. I’m probably better than you, actually.”

Her mouth drops open in mock offense.

“I bet you burn your cookies,” I tease, and I don’t know where that’s coming from. I’m not usually this talkative or playful unless I’m with my friends. But something about her brings it out of me.

“Hey! Leave me alone,” she protests, but she’s grinning. “I don’t always burn them. It’s just, if I get distracted, I kind of forget I put them in. You know, ten minutes goes by fast.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. I like her honesty, the way she doesn’t try to pretend she’s perfect. I figured, but I’m also refreshed by it. It’s not like she’s denying that she burns her cookies.

“Well, I’m about to make you the world’s best cookie,” I announce.

“I doubt that,” she says playfully.

I head back to the kitchen, roll up my sleeves, and get to work. Taking out all the ingredients, I measure everything precisely, cream the butter and sugar together until they’re fluffy, add the eggs one at a time, fold in the dry ingredients, stir in a generous amount of chocolate chips. It’s a great distraction.

Before long, I’m scooping balls of dough onto a baking sheet and spacing them evenly. I slide them into the oven and set the timer; the smell of butter and sugar already starting to fill the small space.

While they bake, I lean against the counter, my eyes drifting to her on the sofa. She hasn’t moved; she’s finished her sandwich and now just sits there, sipping her tea slowly, both hands wrapped around the mug, watching some trashy reality show. Seeing her comfortable reminds me how the doctor part of me knows she’s mine to protect. But the other part of me thinks she looks like trouble. I push off the counter and check the oven instead.

The timer goes off, and I pull out the cookies, which are a perfectly golden brown, slightly crispy on the edges, still soft in the middle. I’m proud of how they turned out, and it makes me eager to share them with her.

I let them cool on the sheet for a few minutes, then transfer them to a plate.