Page 95 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

He glances up, and there’s that curve to his lips, the almost-smile that answers without words. His eyes hold mine for just a beat too long.

I rub my hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. “Okay, well, you promised me you’d help me make chocolate chip cookies.”

He wipes his hands on a dish towel. “I can’t believe how fast you ate the other ones.”

“I would’ve said the opposite. I can’t believe how long they lasted.”

He gathers ingredients across the counter, moving so effortlessly, laying everything out with the precision of someone who approaches cooking the same way I assume he approaches surgery. There’s something mesmerizing about watching his hands work, those long fingers that can reconstruct torn ligaments and repair shattered bones.

“First, you need to put all the dry ingredients in one bowl—sugars, flour, baking soda, salt, chocolate chips. All the good stuff.” He taps each container as he names it. “And then in this bowl, we’re going to mix the wet ingredients—melted butter, egg, vanilla. Then we fold them together.”

He pulls a stool from the counter, and I sit, one crutch resting against the cabinet beside me. He slides the bowls within easy reach without making a thing of it, and I measure and pour while he handles anything that requires two steady feet. My fingers brush against his as we both reach for the measuring cup, and there’s a spark of electricity. The same one as always. I’ve stopped being surprised by it. I’ve started waiting for it.

The dough comes together easily, and the apartment fills with the sweet smell of butter and brown sugar. I roll the mixture into balls between my palms from my perch on the stool while he slides them onto the tray and shows me how to press a fork into each one to create that classic indentation.

“They bake for about ten to fifteen minutes,” he says, sliding the tray into the oven. The heat that wafts out and makes my cheeks flush, or maybe that’s just being this close to him in the small kitchen. He sets the timer on his phone, then moves to the stove and drops the pasta into boiling water with a soft splash. “We’ll be able to eat dinner before dessert.”

It’s been nice having someone look after me. This unexpected sense of home, even in a place that I’m renting, is better than I’ve had my entire adult life.

I haven’t missed LA as much as I thought I would, though Mom calls regularly, still worried about me, but I keep assuring her that I’m fine. I think she feels better knowing Zac’s here, that I’m not struggling alone post-surgery. She’s even started asking about him specifically. How’s the doctor treating you?

While the cookies bake and the pasta simmers, I decide to review my lines.

I get off the stool and sit at the dining table, where I spread out my script. Tomorrow’s shoot is all about the landscape design phase; we’re filming all the teams as they present their visions for the backyard transformation.

“I found an orthopedic physical therapist back in LA to refer you to,” Zac says, not looking up from cleaning up at the counter. “Someone who specializes in post-surgical ankle rehabilitation.”

“You did? That’s, ah, great. Thanks.” I settle into my chair with a soft thump. Back in LA. That was always the plan, right? Finish the show, go home, pick up where I left off. He’s just doing his job, making sure the handover is clean and the care continues.

I look back down at my script, but the words blur together.

“You know, so you’re not stuck with some random PT who doesn’t understand the specific repair I did.” He finally looks up at me, his expression serious, almost protective. “The ligament reconstruction was complex. Not every therapist knows how to work with that.”

I nod slowly, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear.

I hadn’t really thought about it. The PT sessions at the hospital have been focused on basic mobility, getting me functional enough to be on set; I hadn’t thought about needing it after I leave here.

“Thanks. I wouldn’t have known what to look for in a PT.”

He launches into a detailed explanation of Dr. Zuri’s qualifications. He lists off recovery timelines, success rates, the specific exercises I’ll need to progress through. He’s so thorough, gesturing with his hands as he speaks, and that passion makes me smile stupidly.

“The clinic’s in West Hollywood. I looked it up, so it should be manageable from your part of the city.”

Of course he looked it up. He doesn’t know exactly where I live and still found somewhere close enough.

He stops mid-sentence, frowning. “What?”

“I trust you,” I say simply, holding his gaze. Those piercing eyes widen slightly. “If you’re telling me to go to this person, I’ll go. I know you’ll only look out for me and choose the best.”

He stares at me, and something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe? His lips part slightly, as if he’s absorbing my words, processing them. The moment stretches; the only sound is the gentle bubbling of pasta water and the hum of the oven.

“Well, I—” He clears his throat. “You can always call if you need advice. I’ll review your progress reports, make sure you’re tracking properly. But you need a dedicated PT for the daily work to strengthen that ankle.”

I nod. You can always call. By the time I’m back in LA, I won’t be his patient anymore; the arrangement ends when filming does. Which means calling him wouldn’t be crossing any line.

The timer beeps, and it breaks our stare. He turns to drain the pasta, steam rising around him. I should go back to reading the script, but I can’t tear my gaze as he plates up the food, twirling the pasta and adding freshly grated parmesan and a drizzle of olive oil on top. His phone chimes on the counter. The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a sigh, making me curious.

“Who’s that?” I ask, accepting the bowl as he slides it across to me.