Page 87 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

She nods slowly, sipping her tea, and doesn’t try to fix it. And I appreciate that more than I could explain.

It’s strange saying it out loud. I’ve been carrying the dad stuff so long it’s stopped feeling like something I could just talk about. But sitting here, in my house, saying to someone who just listens starts to crack the armor.

I think about what I said to her earlier about Peltz’s job. About not wanting it. For the first time in a long time, I said something about my career that wasn’t about proving anything to anyone. Just what I actually want. It felt unfamiliar in a way that also felt like relief.

A few minutes and several mouthfuls later, I’m scraping my plate clean. She’s only halfway done, savoring each bite like she does with everything.

I bend forward to set my empty plate on the coffee table. Her hand catches my wrist, halting me.

“We’re not in my house,” she says carefully. “Would this—”

“Still counts,” I say before she finishes. “You’re still my patient until the show wraps. Doesn’t matter whose sofa we’re on”

She huffs and falls back into the cushions.

I look at her. At the frustration etched on her face, which I completely understand because I’m living with it too.

“If it makes you feel better, I’m miserable too. I want to kiss you again. Fuck, I want to do a lot more than that.”

Fucking hell, I’ve said too much. I know it as soon as it’s out.

But her eyes are glassy, her lips parted, and the look on her face is…

She wants me. She isn’t hiding it.

It’s been so long, and she’s right there.

An idea forms. It’s still crossing a line, technically. But in my head, it doesn’t breach the ethics code. Not quite.

“How about I watch you come?”

Her teeth graze her bottom lip. “I don’t know...”

“And you can watch me,” I add. Because I need this too. I won’t pretend otherwise.

Because watching her and coming will be fucking everything.

Her chest rises and falls a little faster, her teeth releasing her bottom lip. She looks at me, really looks at me, weighing the gravity of what we’re about to do. The air feels charged as silence stretches between us.

“Okay,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper, but it rings loud in the quiet house.

“You sure?” I need her to be one hundred percent sure. I need to know she’s choosing this as much as I am; that the vulnerability we just shared didn’t cloud her judgement. “Hannah, look at me, honey.”

Her eyes lock with mine, dark and resolute. “Zac. I’m sure.”

I set my fork down on the coffee table. The sharp clunk of metal against wood sounds final. Then I turn to face her fully, bracing one hand on the back of the sofa, the other on my knee.

My heart beats wildly against my ribs. “Tell me if you want to stop. For any reason.”

She nods.

“Say it.”

“I’ll tell you if I want to stop.”

I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers graze along her jaw, lingering just long enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin before I pull back. I’m not touching beyond that. That’s the rule. That’s the flimsy barrier keeping us from completely destroying the professional line. What this is, is watching. Giving us both permission to have what we shouldn’t.

“Honey, you first.”