17. All Choked Up #2
Every step like that makes him closer to human.
Not the untouchable figure from the stage, not the voice that turns stadiums into churches.
Just a man who noticed I coughed and thought to fetch a cup of water.
I don’t know how to reconcile it, if it’s a relief, or if it’s more dangerous.
Because my body still aches from what Dominik did to me last night, none of this feels normal. But I can’t seem to stop.
“Of course.” He nods, the way his eyes hold mine makes me want to look away, but I don't. Almost like a challenge accepted, unwilling to continue being controlled by his glances. His gaze still lingers, but it no longer feels like I’m being burned alive.
He smirks faintly. “Want me to go find that paper? Rip it up? I could probably manage it. Dazzle him with compliments about this place and slip it out from under him.”
I can’t help laughing, shaking my head. “No. His wife’s actually nice. Why she married Conrad, I’ll never understand. Maybe something spectacular in the bedroom I don’t know about. Money’s also nice, I guess.”
He shrugs, easy. The words slip out before I can stop them, bold in a way I always am in Polish. “Kurwa, if you have too much, gladly hand it over.” I motion my hand in a wave.
The second it’s out of my mouth I slap a hand over my lips, eyes wide.
God, did I really just say that? Like he’s some friend of Piotr’s around the dinner table, talking shit over beers.
He laughs, the genuine kind, warm, head tipping back.
The sound makes my stomach dip, because instead of offense or distance, it somehow feels easy with him. Unbelievably easy.
His mouth curves as he leans in. “What’s your account number?”
I narrow my eyes at him, still mortified but grinning. “You’re talking to a descendant of shrewd European women. We don’t joke with finances.”
“Who says I'm joking?” he counters smoothly, and we both laugh again, the sound spilling into the small room like we’ve broken some rule only we know exists.
But even as I laugh, I can feel the clock ticking. My schedule is packed, patients are waiting, and every extra minute I linger here is a minute stolen, not just from the day, but from the line I swore I wouldn’t cross. Yet I don’t move.
I glance at my watch without thinking. He catches it, his expression falls just slightly, as though the tiny motion humbled him. He clears his throat. “You probably have a lot of patients to see.”
“Yes, just a few.” I sigh.
“What, like, a hundred a week?”
I snort. “Forty or so per day and that’s a light clinic. Seventy or eighty if you’re taking up the slack for one of the partners on vacation.”
He blinks. “Fuck. Wow. I had no idea so many eyes were in peril.”
Eyes in peril. It sounds like one of his lyrics, one I’d once tucked away:
My peril is your breath cast against my skin. Oh, won't you do it again?
For a fraction of a second, my own heart melts.
I sigh, stand up, gather his chart and paperwork, the referral for a closer specialist. The only pretense we have to ever see each other again is in my hand and I’m about to hand it over, give it away.
I try to smile, to be professional about it, but it doesn’t quite convince either of us.
“It’s all there,” I tell him. “You’ve got the all clear, just follow up with them, numbers here.
” I hold it out to him, though he seems hesitant to take it.
“So, that’s it then? No grand finale for your high-profile patients?” His voice mocking Conrad, he tilts his head, taking the paperwork with all the enthusiasm of a child being given homework.
“Well, you could go find Conrad. He’d probably let you use his back for a rug if you sang something into his voicemail for Laura.”
I laugh, helpless, and he does too. All the while we’ve been inching closer, not realizing it, stalling, talking, while the clock stacks patient after patient behind this door.
My phone buzzes. The sound slices through the room like cold water, yanking me back from the inches between us, almost within kissing distance somehow, with no exam to excuse it.
I clear my throat, thank him for the water again, take a sip and take a few steps back. “Good luck,” I manage, aiming for lightness. “Try not to slip on any more stages.”
He nods, turns toward the door. Looks down at the referral in his hand. “Thank you…” His eyes flick back up. “Kasia… is that—am I saying it right? Ka-SEE-ah?”
The sound jars me. I shake my head before I can stop myself, voice low. “No… it’s KAH-sha. Soft. Like ‘sh.’”
Something flickers in his eyes, interest, focus, as if the correction is a gift. He tries again, slower this time, the syllables rolling off his tongue. “Kah-sha.”
My entire body turns to cinder. The way he says it, the silk of it wrapped around his mouth, pulling me in like it was always his to claim.
I nod, but no words come. My voice is gone, departed along with my soul, my body, everything.
He nods back, lingering for no longer than a breath. Our eyes catch, hold, refuse to let go.
Then he’s gone.
I linger in the exam room longer than I need to, staring at the empty chair.
It feels like goodbye, and I don’t want to walk out.
As heavy as my heart feels, I tell myself it's for the best. Two worlds that were never meant to cross paths.
Now it's over and I can get back to reality.
One that isn't really so bad. The warmth of it starts swirling around me once the gravity he took with him dissipates.
My phone is still warm in my pocket. When I glance down, Dominik’s name lights the screen. I swipe, and there it is: a picture he snapped this morning, Zosia looking up at me while I bent to tie her shoes, too distracted to notice.
Her big eyes wide and shining, her grin pure mischief.
The caption: See? Blessed eyes.
My heart rips in two and swells full at the same time. I have so much right here, in the palm of my hand. To want something else is greedy, unfair.
I type my reply: Blessed to be there.
And I mean it, with all my heart. I just don’t know what to do with the part that didn’t want him to leave, either.
I'm almost mad at myself, unable to stop how I feel even when I push against it. But the more distance between us, the easier it is to breathe, to focus on Dominik and Zosia, and that’s what I do.
The rest of the day devours me. I don’t even take lunch.
I send the techs, stay in the rooms myself, dilations and eye pressures, hustling through each wave of patients.
Later that night, when I’m finally heading to bed, still restless, still a bit disappointed he hasn’t messaged, still mad at myself for even wanting him to, I toss my phone onto the nightstand. Then it happens. The buzz.
Unknown Number.
I swipe it open, a voice note. Somewhere in a dark corner of my brain, a part that thought maybe it was all one-sided, that it was just nervous energy, considered the idea he wouldn't send anything again.
That our goodbye today was final, that it was for the best. That his silence would be all the answer I needed, and I could put these childish feelings away.
But my heart knew better, and when I press play, it stops altogether.
His voice is soft, sleepy. “Goodnight, Kasia.”
He says it right this time. Careful, proud, like pronouncing my name properly is some achievement greater than a stadium of screaming fans.
I clutch the phone to my ear and close my eyes, every nerve alight.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just my name but it feels like an essay, like a secret.
I bury my face into my pillow, heat crawling up my neck.
What are you doing, Rafe?
The more I replay it, the less it even sounds like words. Just syllables, breath, resonance in my chest. My own name untethered from meaning until it’s nothing but a sound loop, a pulse that refuses to stop. I don’t know if I’m flattered, terrified, or simply losing my grip.