Chapter 57
Jamie
Next time. The Doctor wants a next time — he wants many — but I can’t promise how long I’ll stay.
I don’t tell him; his words linger between us. There’s no point in talking about it now.
I eat in silence. The Doctor cooked for me. He really wants to do things right because he is a good person. He has a soul and a heart. He’s sensitive. I’m taking advantage of that.
Reason tells me to dress quickly and leave, to stop seeking him, to end this after getting what I wanted. But then, his hands, his touch, his painful breathing.
When I met his eyes in the mirror, I realised I still didn’t have what I wanted, wasn’t finished with the Doctor, and that this thing would slip through my hands before I could control it.
Did I really believe this time would be like the others? That a few dates, some sex, a few laughs would be enough? That I could just turn away and move on to the next, leaving this one cleanly behind?
Was I really that na?ve?
I thought my obsession would vanish just like that.
Obsession. I still call it that, even though I no longer truly believe it’s only an obsession — something in it resists simple naming.
What the fuck are you doing with me, Doctor? You want to keep looking, you want to find me. But your degree, your hands and your good heart can do nothing for me.
I should be angry: he ignored my request and my expectations. He wanted to do his own thing; he wanted to keep me for himself, to have an us.
His movements, his caresses, the deep thrusts, kisses, and the way he held me afterwards. That damn sweetness. All the things I never asked for, but that he gave anyway, now torment and consume me from the inside.
Why, Doctor? Why can’t you be like the others?
“Are you tired?” The Doctor calls me back to reality.
“Nah.”
He takes the plate and heads to the kitchen. “Beer?” he calls.
“No, I’m good.”
He returns and settles beside me on the bed, legs stretched and feet crossed.
He’s still wearing his shirt; my skin is bare and raw in the cool air.
I want to touch him again, the urge humming beneath my calm, but I force myself to hold back.
If I don’t, I’ll lose control, and whatever we have will burst open before I can keep it safe.
“Do you want something else, or do you want to watch TV or…?”
He doesn’t say it; he’s afraid.
“I want to stay.”
I say it, even though I’m more afraid than he is.
The Doctor breathes again. “Okay.”
“You could read,” I tell him.
He turns towards me.
“We still have that book to finish.”
“Sure, if you want.”
“It helps me sleep.”
“You mean I bore you?”
“Nah,” I smile. “It relaxes me.”
“That’s what books are for — why you read fairy tales to kids.”
I don’t know what fairy tales are like. No one ever read them to me, and Riley was always too busy making up our own story from nothing, as if we could invent the world as we went, one page at a time.
“Didn’t they read any to you?” he asks discreetly.
I draw a breath. “Sometimes.”
“What was your favourite?”
“I never really liked them, actually.”
“Oh… okay. Not all kids like them. Evan loved The Three Little Pigs, but don’t tell him that, or he’ll cancel me from his list of emergency contacts.”
I turn towards him. “I suspected as much.”
“What can I say? Some things come up in life.”
I laugh and sink down a little more, rolling onto my side. “So, that book?”
The Doctor reaches over to the bedside table, picks up the book, opens it to his bookmark, and starts reading.
The moment he begins, calm washes over me.
My breathing slows, the tension eases, and the pain in my chest becomes almost bearable.
I feel safe again, and I think I can buy us a few more moments before the last one inevitably comes.
During the night, nightmares — vicious and familiar — drag me from sleep and leave me drenched in sweat. I try to sit up, but something holds me down: an arm hooked across my chest.
I blink, disoriented. I look down and see his hand, warm and fucking real, resting on my stomach. Then I remember: I’m in the Doctor’s bed, and he’s holding me close. His warmth seeps into me, his breath brushes my neck, and his hand, steady and protective, feels almost magical.
Without thinking, I slide my hand over his. I trace the lines of his palm, feeling the veins beneath my fingertips. A need I buried long ago surges up, and I lace my fingers through his.
The Doctor sighs and tightens his grip.
“I’ll do my best,” he whispers in his sleep.
I freeze as fear, panic, and the realisation that he’s already fighting for me flood in. The scariest part is, I’m letting him.