Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
NAJI
“ R -remind me to stay inside the rest of the summer,” I complained, even though I was sitting under the AC with a cold bottle of water in my hand.
“Satan’s breath got the block on fire!” I blurted suddenly, nearly dropping the bottle of water.
From the front seat, I swore I heard the driver snicker—one of those quick, caught-off-guard laughs that slipped before you could stop it.
I side-eyed Imanio to see if he’d scold him, but instead, he just smirked—trying not to show it, but I caught it anyway.
That was the day of my doctor’s appointment.
My neurologist, Dr. Camden, was uptight, clinical, and always about thirty seconds away from sweating clean through his lab coat.
He’d been my doctor since I moved to New York, so he knew my entire history, my dosage preferences, the things that made my tics worse, and the rare moments that calmed them.
So even with how much my life had flipped lately, it only made sense that I stuck with him.
Even in summer, the streets never slept, which made Imanio even more cautious.
He insisted on bringing six bodyguards like I was some celebrity.
Imanio arranged it so that we didn’t go through the front.
Instead, we entered through the back—past the dumpster and delivery door—surrounded on both sides by all the towering men in shades, including Imanio.
I felt like I was sneaking into the Grammys just to get my brain chemistry checked.
“Do I look like Beyoncé?” I muttered to Imanio as we slipped through the narrow hallway.
He smirked. “Nah. You look like the girl Beyoncé would’ve hired if she needed to disappear.”
I smacked my lips.
Once we were in the room, Dr. Camden barely had time to open his mouth before Imanio made his presence known.
He stepped forward, arms folded, posture relaxed—but that quiet tension radiating off him said otherwise.
Dr. Camden looked up from his tablet, startled.
“Uh… Miss Ali. I see you brought someone today.”
Imanio was the only person in the room with me. The bodyguards were instructed to go back outside and wait until I was done.
Imanio didn’t smile. “Yeah. Someone who doesn’t like cameras, gossip, or people who forget how easy it is to lose a medical license.”
Dr. Camden cleared his throat, hands suddenly too still, as if he’d forgotten what to do with them.
“I’m only going to say this once,” Imanio continued, tone calm but sharp.
“Whoever you think you see here today… you didn’t.
You don’t speak on me, you don’t write about it, and if I find out otherwise…
” He tilted his head just slightly. “Let’s just say I won’t need a referral to teach you a lesson. ”
The poor man fidgeted behind his glasses, throat working overtime as his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously.
“I—I assure you… I’m bound by HIPAA!”
“Good,” Imanio cut in. “Then we understand each other.”
Imanio stepped back and motioned toward me like nothing had happened.
“She’s the patient. Let’s focus on her.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“Y-You didn’t have to threaten my doctor.”
“You didn’t have to be mine , but here we are,” he countered.
Mine?
That word echoed in my head long after he said it.
No smirk. No wink. No playful shrug to soften the blow.
It didn’t sound like a joke; it sounded like a line drawn in permanent marker. And for reasons I didn’t even want to unpack right then… I didn’t hate it.
We went through the typical routine during my appointment, which included a series of basic neurological tests and an in-depth discussion about my tics, sleep patterns, and dietary habits.
As we navigated those topics, I made an effort to keep the mood light; I even cracked a joke about my tendency to throw a hairbrush at the wall when I felt overwhelmed by stimulation.
Imanio responded with a laugh that was a bit louder than I anticipated, causing me to give him a playful side-eye.
Dr. Camden noticed the exchange and raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by our dynamic.
Despite the seriousness of the subjects we were discussing, it felt good to inject a bit of humor into the conversation.
“Well,” Dr. Camden said, scribbling something on the notepad, “given the increase in frequency and your reported anxiety spikes, I’d like to up your dosage by ten milligrams—just to stabilize you.”
Before I could even respond, Imanio sat up.
“Ten what ?” he snapped.
I leaned back like I was dodging something.
“Caution! Asshole crossing! Ugh! Sorry—tic, not shade!”
Dr. Camden quivered. “Ten… ten milligrams. It’s… it’s a small bump. N-nothing major.”
“You try taking that ‘small bump’ and feeling like a damn zombie for two days,” Imanio said, arms folded tight across his chest. “She’s not broken, and she’s not some experiment you just get to adjust like a thermostat! You don’t fix her; you help her! So help her!”
Dr. Evans tried to stay composed. “Sir, I’ve… I’ve been treating Miss Ali for years?—”
“Then act like it,” Imanio interrupted. “You should know by now her condition isn’t just physical, it’s emotional. And if she says she’s been taking them daily, then maybe talk to her about the overwhelm part instead of turning her into a lab rat.”
Something shifted in the room, like the temperature had dropped a few degrees. Dr. Camden sat back slightly, eyes darting between us.
Then, like a light bulb flicked on, Imanio’s face changed—still stern, but something behind his eyes softened. Realization.
“Then again, y’all don’t need to discuss that reason. Ask her how she feels when she takes her medication.”
Dr. Camden adjusted his glasses, his expression more cautious now. He looked at me directly.
“Miss Ali… do you feel over-medicated? Foggy? Like you’re not… fully present?” He paused, then cleared his throat and added, “Do you feel safe in your current environment?”
My hands gradually clenched into tight fists on my lap, the tension in my fingers palpable as they fought against each other, as if engaged in a silent argument.
I could sense the weight of both of their gazes on me—one pair filled with clinical scrutiny, analyzing every twitch and flinch, while the other exuded warmth and protectiveness.
I randomly hummed the first bar of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” then snapped my fingers hard.
I glanced at Imanio again. He didn’t say a word, but the way his knee was bouncing slightly said plenty.
Dr. Camden shifted forward in his seat, tone careful.
“I only ask because sometimes when patients feel foggy or withdrawn, it’s not always the medication. It can be environmental or … situational,” he clarified.
That was code. I knew it. And so did Imanio.
His knee stopped bouncing, and he grilled my doctor.
“The only situation you need to worry about is her symptoms. Naji’s not being held hostage against her will, abused, or none of that shit—if that’s what you’re implying, doc.”
Dr. Camden raised his hands slightly. “No—no! I just meant… some patients mask stress in high-functioning ways. I only want to make sure she’s supported.”
Imanio’s jaw flexed once. “She’s supported.”
Silence thickened between them, but not the kind that lingered long.
I let out a small breath and spoke up before things could turn into a territory war.
“I’m fine. I promise. I just… I’ve been under a different kind of pressure lately.”
Then the words jumped out before I could stop them.
“Stress is a bitch with no edges! Sorry!” I quickly apologized.
He nodded in understanding.
“But sometimes yeah… I do feel nauseated and foggy. I only started t-taking them daily again because, like I said, I have been under more stress lately. I… I don’t plan on staying on this routine, though.”
I peered over at Imanio.
Imanio probably didn’t know it, but he could be the somewhat cure to my tics. Though they’d never fully leave, being around him—when things were calm—made them… quieter.
Dr. Camden nodded, shifting slightly in his seat.
“Alright.” He sighed. “Then let’s hold your current dose steady for now—no increases.
But I do want you to keep monitoring your stress levels.
That’s going to be the biggest trigger, as you know.
I’m also going to refer you to a behavioral specialist—just someone to work with you on some calming strategies again.
Breathing techniques, grounding, maybe some guided meditation if you’re open to it.
” He gave a tentative smile. “We’ll keep it light and manageable. ”
“Much better,” Imanio chimed in, sitting back, but the heat in his eyes hadn’t cooled. “Next time, try that first, ” Imanio added sharply, but with calm authority. “The goal should never be sedation; it should be stability. She deserves to feel like herself.”
Imanio spoke like a man who wasn’t just present, but protective—like a real husband.
Then he winked at me—quick, subtle—but it hit me straight in the chest. It sent butterflies fluttering low in my stomach. That little gesture let me know he had my back, and in that moment, I truly appreciated him.
After a brief and awkward silence, I signed a few forms, grabbed my prescription refill, and practically dragged Imanio out by the wrist before he could give a whole lecture on side effects.
When we left the room, I had a tic that made me mutter, “White-coat mafia.”
We exited through the same back hallway we came in through, sunlight flooding us once we hit the alley. The moment we made it to the jet-black SUV parked discreetly at the curb, I let out a breath and leaned against the door.
“R-Remind me never to take you to a dentist!” I huffed, fanning myself with the appointment folder. “You might slap the drill out his hand and tell him, ‘Back up off her molars, doc!’”
Imanio finally cracked a smile, shaking his head.
That’s when it happened.
“Don’t take my organs—I need those to live!” I shouted out of nowhere, nearly choking on my own breath.
On cue, a couple walking past actually stopped and stared.