Page 98 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

But I make myself reach for my crutches. “I should probably sleep. Early call-time tomorrow.”

“Yeah, of course.” He stands too, gathering the mugs and the plate.

I make my way to the bedroom slowly, and I’m propped up against the pillows, script open in my lap, he appears at the bedroom door.

“Goodnight,” he says, hesitating for a second, like he wants to say something else, but then just nods and heads for the front door. It opens and closes softly, the lock clicking into place.

I stare at the script without reading it. Since his house, we’ve both been careful with each other. Professional in the way people are when they’re both pretending something didn’t happen and both know the other is pretending too. But tonight something shifted. The cooking together, his hands brushing mine over the measuring cup. The way he talked about his dad and his career, like he’d finally stopped holding himself back. The cookies. The show he stayed for. And then his knee against mine for an entire episode.

I have feelings for him. I’ve known that for a while now; said it out loud to Brooke. But tonight I can feel it differently. It’s not the surgery, or the care, or even the proximity, though all of those cracked me open in a way I didn’t expect. It’s the smaller things that have stacked up over time. The way he notices when I’m in pain before I say anything. The way he argues about paying for dinner, like it personally offends him to let me. The way he spoke about his dad tonight, like he was testing whether it was safe to and kept going because it was. The way he talks about medicine, like it’s the thing he was made for. The way he made tea tonight without being asked, like it’s just what you do for someone you care about.

With a sigh, I get comfortable, but sleep doesn’t come easy.

Chapter 32

Zac

It’s been half an hour since I left her place, and I’ve been tossing and turning in bed. I kick the sheet off, then pull it back up, then kick it off again.

I’ve been managing this since the night at my place. Keeping a professional distance, staying useful, not letting anything else happen. And for the most part it’s worked. We’ve settled into a routine that looked normal from the outside.

Tonight broke that.

I don’t know exactly when it shifted. Could’ve been when she said I trust you about the PT referral, like it was the simplest thing in the world—three words that hit me straight in the chest. I can’t remember the last time someone trusted me just as a person, not as a surgeon or a Sterling. Maybe it was when she laughed at that stupid crime show. I wasn’t watching the show at all. I was watching her. I can’t remember the last time I watched something just because I wanted to. Not a surgical technique video, or a medical documentary I could justify as professional development. Just a show, on a sofa, because the person beside me wanted company and I didn’t want to leave. Or maybe the way her eyes lit up when I brought her the tea.

The nights before this one, I’ve come home unsettled but functional.

She opened up in a way she hasn’t before. Taking in the things I said without brushing them off. Nobody does that with me. People either push for more or change the subject—she just listened. And her doing that hit differently than I was prepared for.

She thinks I’ve been taking care of her. She has no idea it’s been the other way around too.

I’m sweating, my body temperature spiking despite the cool air in my bedroom. I’m hard and frustrated and completely unable to talk myself down the way I used to be able to. It’s been worse since the night at my place; the line I told myself is still there even though I know exactly where it went.

I get up and walk to the bathroom, flick on the light, strip off my boxers and step into the shower. I make the water cool, almost cold, hoping it’ll shock some sense back into me. The spray hits my overheated skin, and I hiss, pressing my palms against the tile.

It doesn’t help. If anything, the sensation makes it worse and makes me more aware of every nerve ending.

This time, I don’t fight it. The first time, there was guilt and shame when I finished. Now I’m just standing here, hand already moving, and the guilt is still there, but it’s further back than it used to be. That’s the thing about doing this more than once. The guilt doesn’t disappear. It just gets quieter each time, which is its own warning sign I keep choosing to ignore.

Hannah, on the sofa touching herself. Hannah, next to me on the sofa, watching TV. Hannah saying, “I trust you,” like she had no idea those three words would wreck me.

I brace my forearm against the tile and stop pretending I’m going to stop.

My breathing goes ragged, echoing off the walls. I think about what it would feel like to close the distance I’ve been so carefully maintaining. To touch her. To have the feel of her hands on my skin. Fuck, I’d do anything to feel them. To taste her the way I’ve been fantasizing about for weeks now.

“Hannah,” I grunt, hips jerking forward as I come hard.

For a few seconds, everything goes blissfully blank, just pure physical sensation washing through me. Then it’s gone.

I stand under the cool water and wait for the shame. It arrives, but it’s less intense this time, which might be the most concerning part of all of this. Grabbing the soap, I go through the motions, telling myself…

Get it together.

Focus on the job.

I’ve said it all before. I believed it more then.

I turn off the water.