19. Why dont you kiss my hand better, doctor?
When my shift ended, I quickly signed off and stepped out of the hospital, eager to get home.
That's when I saw him.
Daxton stood near the curb, clutching his hand.
My heart stood still as I noticed it. Blood.
A thin, red line ran down the side of his hand, dripping slowly onto the pavement.
My heart leapt straight into my throat.
"Daxton!" I rushed toward him without thinking, grabbing his wrist. "What happened?"
He blinked, clearly not expecting my reaction. "Ayra, hey, it's nothing."
"This is not nothing," I chastised, already pulling him toward the entrance. "You're bleeding."
"It's really not that bad—" he started, but I cut him off.
"I'm the doctor. I decide that." I retorted.
"Right. My apologies, doctor." He said playfully, letting me drag him inside, lips twitching as if he was highly amused by my panic.
I led him to the same doctor's room where we'd had dinner together, and I had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
"Sit." I ordered, gesturing to the couch.
"Yes, doctor." He said, that amused smirk permanently plastered to his face.
I shook my head at his nonchalance, pulling out a first aid kit. "You're too calm for someone whose hand is bleeding."
"That's because it's not a big deal." He replied calmly.
"You're unbelievable." I huffed.
I grabbed gloves, antiseptic, gauze—my hands moved on autopilot. Only when I turned back to him did I realize how close we were.
He looked sinfully gorgeous. Even with a bleeding hand.
I sat next to him, taking hold of his hand.
The cut wasn't deep, but it was long enough to sting. I cleaned it carefully, my thumb steadying his palm as my fingers brushed his skin.
His breath hitched.
I glanced up. Our eyes met. The same electric pull tugging at us.
"How did this happen?" I asked, focusing back on the wound, and a little less on the way his closeness made me feel.
"Accident." He said easily, as if it was a practiced answer.
I frowned. "That's vague."
"Paper cut. Metal edge. Poor life choices." He shrugged.
I shot him a look. "So which one was it?"
His lips tugged upwards slightly. "Don't worry about it."
I didn't buy it, but I let it go for now, wrapping his hand with practiced care.
"There," I said. "Try not to bleed on any more sidewalks."
He sighed dramatically. "Such a tough task."
I snorted, taping the bandage securely. My fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary.
He watched me, eyes dark and intent. "So," he said casually. Too casually. "Have you thought about what I said yesterday?"
My pulse spiked. "About... moving in?"
"Yes."
I stepped back, pulling off my gloves slowly. "I have. And I—" I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "I need time, Daxton. It's a big step."
He nodded, expression unreadable. "That's fair."
"We don't even know each other like that." I said softly, discarding the gloves.
He shrugged lightly. "We know enough."
I pressed my lips together. "I'll think about it."
"No pressure," he assured. "I'm just concerned for your safety."
I nodded, grateful. "I appreciate that."
He stood up, nearing me until I could feel the warmth radiating from his body and smell his enticing perfume.
Our eyes locked, and my heart seemed to stand still. His fingers brushed my wrist, sending a spark straight up my arm.
His eyes watched me as if I was something precious.
"Ayra?" He murmured, voice low and enticing.
"Y-yes?" I breathed out, leaning in subconsciously as my gaze dropped to his lips.
He leaned in slightly. Not enough to touch. Just enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek, my lips.
I forgot how to breathe.
My body tilted toward his, my fingers curling into his shirt at the waist.
His thumb traced the inside of my wrist, and I swear my knees weakened.
And then...
Knock. Knock.
We froze.
The door opened to reveal one of the cleaning staff. He looked between me and Daxton suspiciously.
Daxton straightened, running a hand through his hair, jaw tight, eyes reflecting his disappointment.
I cleared my throat, creating space between us before turning to Daxton. "Do you need painkillers for that?" I gestured to his bandaged hand.
Amusement danced in his eyes. "No, thank you, doctor."
I gave him my practiced, professional smile. "I'll walk you out, Mr. Anderson."
He nodded, smile matching mine.
We fell into stride together as we walked outside the hospital.
"I hate it when you call me Mr. Anderson." He muttered in my ear.
I bit back my smile. "Noted."
"As for the painkillers..." he trailed off, just as we neared his car. I gasped as he pressed me to the door of the car, sending jolts of electricity through my body. He held up his hand. "Why don't you kiss my hand better, doctor?"
My cheeks burned crimson. "Harassing a doctor, Mr. Anderson? Not very professional of you." I teased, despite the mess that my heartbeat was.
He lowered his head, breath fanning my face. "Harassing? No. That's just me flirting with you again."
My blush deepened, and I put my hands on his chest.
His body was close, and yet he didn't touch me anywhere inappropriate. That somehow made it worse.
My palms were flat against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath crisp fabric. Solid. Warm. Real. His hand stayed braced against the car beside my head, caging me in without actually trapping me.
"Flirting," I repeated softly, tilting my chin up just a fraction. "Is that what you call this?"
His eyes dipped to my lips for half a second before lifting again, restraint etched into every line of his face. "I call this self-control," he said quietly. "Which you are making very difficult."
My breath stuttered. "I'm... just standing here."
He gave a low chuckle. "You're standing here looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're deciding whether to break every rule you've ever lived by."
Heat rushed through me, curling low in my stomach. I shifted slightly, and the movement brought us closer—my hip brushing his, my chest almost grazing his.
His jaw tightened.
"Careful," he murmured. "I'm still bleeding. Would hate for you to write yourself up for malpractice."
I laughed, breathless.
My fingers curled into his shirt without my permission. Not pulling. Just... holding.
"Daxton." I whispered. His name felt dangerous on my tongue.
"Yes?"
I cleared my throat, tracing a finger over his chest. "Where's the part where you take me home?" I whispered, overwhelmed. I wanted to close the distance between us so bad.
A corner of his mouth lifted. "I'll take you home, don't worry."
"Why do I have a feeling you're about to get me fired from this hospital?" I teased.
He chuckled darkly. "The day this hospital decides to hurt you in any way, Ayra, will be the day it stops existing."
My heart did a backflip in my chest, my gaze dropping down for a second before I looked up again. "You mentioned something about self-control earlier."
"Yeah?" He murmured.
I arched a brow. "You say that, but your hand says otherwise."
He glanced down at where his fingers had slid to my waist at some point, resting there like they belonged.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted them in surrender.
"See?" He said. "Control."
I exhaled a laugh. "Barely."
That earned a low chuckle from him. He stepped back, opening the car door for me like the perfect gentleman he insisted on being, even after pressing me into the vehicle moments ago.
"After you, Doctor."
I slid inside, pulse still racing.
He joined me seconds later, and the chauffeur pulled the car out of the parking lot.
"You know," Daxton broke the silence. "You treated my superficial cut as if I'd been stabbed."
My heart skipped a beat. "I didn't like seeing you hurt."
Something unreadable flickered across his face, before he extended his bandages hand towards me. "It hurts a little. Think you can hold it to make it better?"
I uttered a short laugh, shaking my head before gently holding his hand, butterflies erupting in my stomach the moment I did.
The car hit a bump, subtle but enough that my shoulder brushed his arm. Neither of us moved away. Instead, he shifted slightly so our thighs touched.
"Tell me something," he said softly. "If I weren't who I am... if this were just a normal ride home..."
"Yes?" I pressed.
"Would you still be sitting this close to me?"
I swallowed. "Probably closer."
I felt his breath hitch.
"That's dangerous information." He murmured.
"Then stop asking dangerous questions." I quipped.
Silence settled between us, thick and heavy. The city lights blurred past the windows, the hum of the car the only thing grounding me.
"Are you tired?" He asked quietly.
"Exhausted." I admitted.
"Come here." He said without thinking.
I looked at him.
He seemed to realize what he'd said and paused. "Only if you want to."
I hesitated for a second before shifting closer, resting my head against his shoulder.
His entire body went still.
Then, slowly, carefully, his arm came around me—loose, respectful, warm.
By the time the car slowed in front of my building, I was half-asleep against him.
He didn't wake me right away.
And that somehow meant everything.