11. Not as beautiful as you.
Everything about the morning felt sad. I wasn't ready to say goodbye to the week yet, but time didn't have mercy on anyone. It never stopped.
My suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed, clothes folded neatly but without any real care. I moved around on autopilot—checking drawers, making sure I hadn't forgotten anything—when a soft knock sounded at the door.
I opened it to find a hotel staff member holding a bouquet.
"For Dr. Ayra Laurent." He said with a polite smile.
I blinked, surprised. "Oh... thank you!"
I took the flowers from him and brought them inside.
Pink roses. Fresh and beautiful, their fragrance filling up the room instantly.
I breathed in the scent, relishing it.
Tucked between the blooms was a small, cream-colored card.
For the woman who brought clarity to a room full of noise. Thank you for this week. -Daxton.
My heart swelled with joy and pride, emotion consuming me.
How in the world was I supposed to move on from this man and this whole week?
The lobby buzzed with departures.
Suitcases rolled across marble floors. Final handshakes were exchanged. People promised emails and follow-ups they might or might not keep.
I spotted him near the entrance almost immediately.
Daxton stood beside his assistant, dressed immaculately as always, coat draped over his arm. When he saw me, his attention shifted fully, the rest of the world fading into the background.
"Good morning, Ayra." He said warmly as I approached.
I smiled brightly at him. "Good morning... Daxton," I held up the flowers. "Thank you. They're beautiful."
He smiled back. "Not as beautiful as you."
My heart stilled, breathing quickening.
He did not just say that.
I cleared my throat, cheeks warm. "Thank you for a great week."
He nodded. "I'm glad you joined us. Are you resuming your duty at the hospital tomorrow?"
"Yes. Early morning, in fact."
He nodded again. "Good luck."
"Thank you." I managed to squeak.
My heart was constricting in my chest as if it were being squeezed tightly in an iron first. I wanted to stay longer. I wished we had more time. I didn't want to say goodbye when we hadn't even put a name to this pull between us.
"I should go now." I said awkwardly.
His gaze seemed reluctant, unwilling. "Sure... until we meet again."
My heart squeezed again. "Perhaps at another conference." I muttered.
He shrugged slightly, gaze intense. "Perhaps sooner."
I gazed back into his dark eyes, unable to look away. If only.
"Goodbye, Mr— uh, Daxton."
He put a hand in his pocket and retrieved something.
A card.
But not a business card.
He extended it towards me.
I took it, scanning the handwriting. A phone number. His.
"In case you ever need anything." He spoke, a hint of that professionalism coating his voice that he mostly used in conference rooms and interviews.
My pulse was erratic now.
All I could offer was a nod.
We shared one last look. Heavy, longing, full of unspoken words and unrevealed emotions.
"I wish you the very best, Dr. Ayra." He stated.
"You too, Mr. Anderson."
For a heartbeat, it felt like he might say something more.
He didn't.
Neither did I.
We turned in opposite directions, carrying the weight of our unspoken words.
———
A week later, life had slipped back into its familiar rhythm—fast, demanding, unforgiving. The same controlled chaos. Same smell of antiseptic.
The moment I stepped into the OB-GYN ward, conference halls and hotel gardens felt like another lifetime. A far off dream, in fact.
"Dr. Ayra, bed six is fully dilated." A nurse called.
"Coming!" I called back, hurrying to scrub in.
The patient was a 26-year-old primigravida at 39+4 weeks, contractions strong and regular, fetal heart tracing reassuring on the CTG.
I coached her through controlled pushing, monitored the perineum carefully, my mind automatically cataloguing every step—crowning, controlled delivery of the head, checking for a nuchal cord.
"Slow, deep breaths," I said gently. "You're doing great."
A healthy baby boy arrived moments later, pink and screaming, Apgar scores solid at one and five minutes. I felt that familiar surge of relief and quiet joy as I handed him over to the waiting pediatric resident.
Another beginning.
As I wrote my notes—normal vaginal delivery, no complications, placenta delivered intact—my thoughts drifted somewhere they had no business going.
Daxton.
I could still hear his voice in my head, feel his proximity every time I was alone.
I had gone insane. I needed an urgent psychiatric review.
I shook my head slightly and moved on.
The ward was full that day. I had to focus on my patients, and not a man who was probably just being nice. I had no place in his glamorous world or his life.
A patient with gestational diabetes needed insulin adjustments after her fasting glucose came back elevated.
Another with preeclampsia required close blood pressure monitoring and repeat labs—LFTs, platelets, urine protein.
I reviewed ultrasound images with my senior, discussing amniotic fluid indices and fetal growth percentiles.
Medicine demanded my full attention, and I gave it willingly.
Still, in the quiet moments, he slipped in.
While washing my hands at the sink, I remembered pink roses.
While reviewing a case file, I heard his voice asking, Are you doing okay?
While standing at the coffee table sipping hot coffee, I thought about the way he'd remembered how I took mine.
It annoyed me how easily he lingered in my mind. The way my mind managed to find excuses to remember him even with how busy I was.
During afternoon rounds, I checked on a patient with recurrent miscarriages, offering reassurance as we discussed progesterone support and follow-up scans.
"There are no guarantees," I said softly, choosing my words with care. "But we'll take this one step at a time. You won't be alone."
The words echoed back at me in a way I hadn't expected.
By the end of my shift, my feet ached and my scrubs were creased, my hair escaping its clip. I should have felt exhausted enough to think of nothing but sleep.
Instead, as I changed in the locker room, my hand flipped out a handwritten card from my purse.
Numbers stared back at me.
I couldn't possibly contact him. What would I say?
Hi. I think I'm head over heels for you. Let's date.
Yup. Definitely need that psych review.
He was probably just being courteous when he gave me his number. He couldn't possibly be expecting me to contact him.
He might have forgotten all about me.
The thought stung.
Walking out of the hospital into the fading evening light, I reminded myself that this was real life. This was where I belonged. Among patients and charts and emergencies and quiet victories no one applauded.
And yet, somewhere between delivery rooms and ultrasound reports, a man in crisp shirts and quiet authority had taken up space in my thoughts.
I hadn't stopped thinking about him.
Not even once.
And that, I realized as I headed home, might be the most dangerous diagnosis of all.