Page 82 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Everyone lights up around you. Even Genevieve. People genuinely like you, Hannah. You can see it in how they interact with you. The way they listen when you talk, the way they ask for your opinion, and even the whole energy of the set changes when you’re there. Anyone can see that.”

“You can see it,” I say, trying to lighten the moment, because my heart is beating so hard against my ribs, I’m sure he can hear it. This is beyond one compliment. This is him seeing me, really seeing me, in a way no man has… except my dad.

“Yes, I can see it,” he admits. “But you’re respected by the whole crew, Hannah. Not just liked… respected. Have you thought about applying for a director role? Actually putting yourself out there for it?”

“I need more experience first,” I say automatically. It’s the excuse I’ve been telling myself for over a year.

“Says who?” he presses, his eyes challenging.

“Me. I don’t know.” I shake my head, frustration bubbling up. At myself, at my fear, at all the reasons I’ve been holding back. “Everyone already has an opinion about me before I open my mouth. I was a contestant. I won a reality show. That’s the box they put me in, and I’ve been trying to climb out of it ever since.” I look at the wood, and then back up at him. “This hosting role was supposed to be the thing that changed that.”

“Is that what you want?” he asks skeptically, like he already knows the answer, and he’s just waiting for me to admit it.

The sincere way he’s looking at me… the intensity, the genuine interest, his blue eyes locked on mine like my answer is the most important thing right now—it makes me reach deep into myself and tell him my deepest desire.

“I want to direct,” I whisper, and saying it aloud feels terrifying and exhilarating at once.

He smirks.

Then it turns into a smile.

A real smile that transforms his face, making him look younger, and my stomach somersaults.

“Is that a smile, Zac?” I taunt, unable to help myself, my own lips pulling up in response. “An actual smile?”

“Honey, it can be whatever you want it to be,” he says playfully.

Surprise and something warm and fluttery blooms in my chest. “Honey?”

The word hangs between us, and I watch as realization slams into him. His eyes widen slightly, then he shakes his head, looking flustered. This normally composed man who never seems rattled by anything.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I didn’t mean it like… I guess I’m hangry,” he says, running his hand over his temple to his forehead, rubbing like he can physically erase the last thirty seconds.

“That’s not how that works.” I fight back a smile. “Hangry means you’re angry because you’re hungry. You’re not angry.”

“Well, I don’t know what I am then,” he mutters, and he looks genuinely confused by himself, which is endearing.

Plates being lowered to the table interrupts us, and relief settles on his face as Genevieve appears with our food. The meatloaf looks mouthwatering. Thick-cut slices covered with gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans on the side, steam rising from everything.

“Here you go, two meatloaf specials. Best in the country, if I do say so myself,” Genevieve says proudly. “You two need anything else, you just let me know, okay?”

“Thank you. This looks amazing,” I say sincerely.

She beams at me and pats Zac’s shoulder. He tenses immediately, but she doesn’t seem to notice and heads back to check on her other customers.

I sit with the “honey” comment while I pick up my fork. I’ve been called “honey” plenty of times. By condescending directors, by older crew members who didn’t respect me, by men who used it like a weapon to diminish me, to put me in my place. It always felt slimy, patronizing, like they were patting me on the head and telling me to run along while the adults talked.

But with Zac, it slipped out accidentally, washed over me with the sweetest intention, like he couldn’t help himself. Like it was the most natural thing in the world to call me something affectionate, something tender.

The same way kissing me felt natural. Right up until he pulled back and told me it couldn’t happen again.

And God help me, I want to hear it again.

I take a bite of meatloaf. It’s perfectly seasoned, moist, with just the right amount of richness from the gravy. “Oh my God,” I moan around the bite, my eyes closing.

When I open them, Zac’s staring at me, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth, his expression unreadable, but intense, and I know that look now. I’ve seen it in the laundry room, right before his control broke. It’s the look he gets when he’s losing the argument he’s having with himself.

There’s something heated in his eyes that makes my skin flush hot. “What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.