17. All Choked Up
All Choked Up
The clinic seems louder than usual the moment I step inside.
My pulse is already skittering, nerves wound tight from not enough sleep and the sensation of an extra layer of makeup on my face.
I tried to convince myself it was “practical” to hide the dark circles under my eyes but I know the truth.
The front desk is swamped, Conrad’s voice carrying from down the hall, warm but commanding.
Two of the partners are here too, shaking hands with a nervous-looking candidate for the retina fellowship. A day of observation. Perfect.
I straighten my coat, clutching my chart like a lifeline. Margie, our lead receptionist, looks up from her desk as I pass, her expression bright. “Well, don’t you look lovely this morning, Doctor!”
Her smile is kind, genuine, but it lands like a pebble in my throat, that she notices.
I’m reviewing a chart when I hear it and freeze.
His voice. Smooth, measured, edged with something darker the mic never caught, cutting straight through the buzz of the lobby.
I perch on a stool just inside exam room three, ridiculously attempting to hide after I've gone to all this effort.
Suddenly, nerves have their claws in me, but I try in vain to calm myself.
I exhale, close my eyes as I sit there, legs crossed, the dress I chose instead of scrubs fits me neatly, pen pressed absently between my teeth.
To anyone watching, I probably look focused.
But my mind is white noise, nothing sticking, nothing threading together.
The tech’s voice carries down the hall, cheerful, routine: “Mr. Ashton? We’ll get you set up.” I don’t dare glance toward the doorway, but the sweep of motion at the edge of my vision tells me enough. He passes by, tall and unhurried, following the tech toward a room.
I can’t read a thing on this ultrasound imaging; my periphery catches him, and I hold my breath.
This is not the man I examined at five in the morning, not the half-broken figure still smeared in body paint and sweat, voice thick from being on stage and the ER.
Not the man who rasped through his pain while I pressed on his eye, muscles clenched.
No, this morning, he is something else entirely.
Sleek and composed. Black shirt fitted, threaded with zippers and buttons that look more like art than clothing.
His scent lingers after him, cloves, musk, a sea breeze beneath it.
Something I want to sink into, halfway between sweetness and pure bite.
The top of his hair is pulled back into a knot, the rest spilling over his shoulders, catching the clinic’s weak light like a spotlight following him inside.
The funniest thing is it isn’t just me; I can feel it in the way conversations falter when he walks past, how the air seems to lean toward him just like it did the first night I watched him in that tiny venue.
My pen taps against the edge of the desk.
He’s brought the stage here, and the building isn’t big enough to contain him.
I’m expected to be professional. To treat him like any other patient.
My pen stills. My body knows before my mind can catch up, I can feel his gaze linger as he passes the exam room door, like the sun has shifted to burn me down.
I tell myself to focus, to breathe, to be the doctor in this office. But my pulse only hammers harder, every beat spelling out what I won’t admit to myself: that I wanted him to look.
By the time I step into exam room five, I’ve rehearsed the script in my head half a dozen times. Professional, detached, routine, but the sight of him stops me anyway. Even here, under fluorescent bulbs and beige walls, he’s magnetic and he knows it.
What I don’t expect is the way his eyes sweep over me, lingering too long.
My dark dress under the white coat, hair smoothed into place, lipstick a shade deeper than usual.
The weight of his gaze says he notices every detail, that my armor was never just for me.
We’ve both made an effort for each other.
We both know, and neither of us says a word.
I clear my throat, smooth the chart. “Mr. Ashton. How’s your vision been since our last visit?”
He swallows, harder than the question requires.
“Good,” he says, but the word feels caught, like it had to fight its way out.
I keep going through the motions, asking about headaches, flashes, floaters, the lines on a page.
He answers, but his voice keeps faltering, his confidence eroding.
He was cocky the first time, smirking through the pain.
Now it feels too real, too close. It’s like we’re aware of our bodies in a way we weren’t last time.
I shift the chart to note something on the computer and it slips from the desk, clattering to the floor.
He bends at the same moment I do, and our hands brush as we both reach for it.
The contact is brief, a spark, but it burns through me like an open flame.
We both pull back too fast, as if burned.
My breath catches. I force a smile, smoothing my coat as I retreat to the monitor.
“The scans look healthy,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Glad something about me is,” he mutters, wry.
The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it.
His eyes find mine, and for one suspended moment it’s easier, the mixture of laughter in the atmosphere.
But as it settles it's replaced by heat, recognition all tangled in the air.
It makes me almost sick to my stomach, the rush of adrenaline.
Can you have so much chemistry with someone you're ill from it?
I've never contemplated the possibility until this moment.
What unsettles me most is that I don’t even see Obelus anymore. Not the persona, not the voice that commands stadiums. In this room, he’s just Rafe Ashton, just a man. But one that short circuits me when he’s near, without even trying.
“Alright,” I say, forcing my tone back into something clinical, “let’s check your retina one last time. If you'll place your head in the chin rest.”
He shifts into place, posture patient but tense.
I adjust the light, angle the scope, lean close.
His breath fans against my cheek, mint and something sweet, glossed, almost fruity.
He came prepared for this. He even thought about every aspect of his scent down to his lips, his mouth, the same way I thought about my hair, my coat, my lipstick.
Only he followed through better, prepared for every angle.
I start to wonder if my breath still has a hint of coffee or the pen I was chewing on just a moment ago and the self-conscious heat rises fast, crawling up my neck, choking me at the worst possible second.
I muffle a cough, just once, but it jerks the lamp.
I pull back, try to swallow it down, cough again, mortified.
“Sorry,” I mutter, fumbling with the dials.
Before I can recover, he’s already moving, standing tall beside me. “Do you need water?” His voice is concerned, patient. “I saw some in the lobby.”
I shake my head, about to refuse, but he’s gone, then back, before I can gather myself, holding out a paper cup.
“Here.”
I take it, fingers brushing his for half a second, and sip. Cool water, nothing more. But when I look up, he’s right there, closer than I'd realized at first. My breath won’t even out and his gaze doesn’t waver.
We both linger on nothing more than this, a cup of water between us, the hush of the clinic outside the door, the nearness impossible to ignore.
The silence between us is broken by a brisk knock, we both immediately take distance from each other like we know from instinct what we were inching toward might imply.
The door swings open before I can answer.
“Mr. Ashton,” Conrad beams, striding in like he owns the place. He holds out a hand, and Rafe obliges, a firm exchange. “I just wanted to come by and check on you myself. Here, we make sure our high-profile patients get the very best care.”
My stomach sinks. I open my mouth to explain, but Conrad’s already frowning. “Dr. Sawadzka, you booked him in a normal slot? Really? We could have arranged out-of-hours, something more discreet.”
Heat rushes up my neck. Before I can defend myself, Rafe straightens with authority, voice even but firm. “No, I asked for this time slot. It works best for me. I actually came straight from Philadelphia after a show to be seen by Dr. Sawadzka, specifically. She's worth the trip. ”
Conrad’s brows lift, caught off guard. He clears his throat, nods in approval like he’d planned it that way all along. “Well then, I’ll let you two continue.” He produces a scrap of paper and a pen. “My wife’s a fan. A quick signature?”
Rafe takes it without hesitation, scrawls something elegant and quick, and hands it back with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Much appreciated,” Conrad says, tucking it away. “Carry on.” The door clicks shut behind him.
The second it does, Rafe flips him off, middle finger high and casual. I burst into laughter, hand over my mouth to smother it.
“Stop,” I hiss between trying to stifle a laugh. “He might see and I have to work with him after you leave.”
“Shame,” he says, lips trying to dampen his own laugh now.
The air is still heavy and charged but now it carries our laughter too, like a secret no one else gets to share. I clear my throat and force my hands steady on the lamp again. We complete the examination, and when it's finished I let out a quick, “Thank you… for the water,” avoiding his gaze.