13. I gave you my number because I hoped you would.
I let out a shaky breath, putting a hand over my racing heart.
"I'm sorry, did I scare you?" Daxton spoke gently, stepping forward.
I had to blink a few times to confirm that he was truly there.
"D-Daxton?"
His lips curved into that warm, disarming smile I knew far too well. The kind that made my chest ache in places I didn't have names for. He took a step closer, careful, as if approaching something fragile.
"Hello, Ayra. How are you?"
My heart fluttered stupidly, traitorously. "I'm... I'm good. Sorry, I'm just surprised seeing you here."
He nodded, eyes searching my face like he was reading between the lines. "I was hoping I'd run into you."
That admission alone sent a quiet shiver through me.
"Are you heading home?" He asked.
"Yes," I replied. "My call just ended."
He glanced at the hospital entrance, then back at me. "Do you have a ride?"
Something hopeful flickered in his eyes, and I noticed it. My pulse picked up.
"I live nearby," I said. "I usually walk."
He frowned immediately, like the idea offended him on a personal level. "After an exhausting call?" He shook his head. "Absolutely not. Good thing I showed up."
"Daxton, it's really fine," I said quickly. "I don't want to inconvenience you."
"Ayra."
Just my name. Calm. Firm.
My resolve crumbled embarrassingly fast.
"...Okay." I murmured.
His expression softened, satisfaction slipping through before he masked it. "Good. Come on."
He led me to his car, opening the back door for me with quiet courtesy. I climbed in, smoothing my coat nervously, my heart still unsettled—from earlier, from him, from everything.
He slid in beside me moments later, close enough that I could feel his warmth without touching him. The faint scent of his cologne wrapped around me, familiar and enticing.
The chauffeur started the car.
I gave my address, my voice steadier now, though my thoughts were anything but.
The city lights blurred past the windows as silence settled between us—not awkward, just heavy. Charged. Like both of us were circling something neither wanted to name.
A few seconds passed.
Then Daxton spoke.
"You never called."
The words were quiet. Not accusing, but slightly complaining. Disappointed.
I turned slightly toward him, surprised. His gaze wasn't sharp or demanding, just intent. Curious. Maybe a little wounded.
"I—" I swallowed. "I didn't know if you wanted me to."
He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. "I gave you my number because I hoped you would."
My heartbeat sped up again. "I... I thought you were just being courteous."
He laughed softly, in disbelief before running a hand over his face. "By that logic, I should've gone around distributing my personal phone number to every single attendee."
I giggled despite myself.
He glanced at me again, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You look tired. Have you not slept at all?"
I rested my head on the window pane, looking his way. "Last night I had two emergency C-sections back-to-back, one postpartum hemorrhage, and a patient with severe preeclampsia whose BP refused to cooperate despite magnesium sulfate."
His brows lifted. "Damn... though, I have to admit I don't understand half of what you just said."
I laughed softly.
"You still show up every day. It's remarkable." He commented.
A smile played at my lips. "I don't have a choice. Babies don't respect exhaustion."
"Do you like babies?" He asked, turning slightly towards me, his face relaxed.
I grinned instantly. "I love babies! They're the best part of my job."
"They cry, they scream, they keep you up all night," he said thoughtfully. "And yet you say that like it's a privilege."
"It is," I replied without hesitation. "The moment you hear that first cry? It doesn't matter how tired you are. Your body just... forgets."
He watched me as I spoke, like he was filing the information away somewhere important. "You light up when you talk about it."
I felt my cheeks warm. "Occupational hazard."
"No," he said quietly. "Passion."
I shifted, suddenly very aware of the way he was looking at me. "What about you?" I asked. "Do you like... people?"
One of his brows lifted. "That's a dangerous question."
I smiled. "You deal with them all day."
He considered it. "I like competence. I like integrity. I like people who care about what they do."
"That sounds suspiciously like a list of things you admire." I teased.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But admiration doesn't come easily to me."
The car slowed as traffic thickened. Streetlights spilled soft gold through the windows.
"You know," he added, almost casually, "most people I meet want something from me. A deal. A favor. Access."
I glanced at him. "And me?"
"You," he said after a beat, "talk about magnesium sulfate like it's normal dinner conversation."
I laughed again, warmer this time. "I can talk about oxytocin too, if you want."
He shook his head, amused. "I'll take your word for it."
A comfortable silence settled between us. Not awkward, but comforting in some weirdly warm sort of way.
He broke it gently. "I'm glad you love what you do."
"Really? Why's that?"
"Because people like you should be exactly where they are."
His words tugged at my heart.
The car turned onto my street.
I sat up straighter, suddenly reluctant. "This is me."
He nodded, though something unreadable crossed his face. "Get some rest, Dr. Ayra. The world seems to need you functioning. Babies and women, in particular."
I laughed softly, my heart doing that quiet, traitorous flutter again. "Sure. Thank you for the ride."
"For the record," he added, holding my gaze. "If you ever decide to talk about work again... I'll listen. Even if I don't understand a word."
My heart did an excited somersault. "I appreciate that... good night, Daxton."
"Good night, Ayra. Sweet dreams."