I tried to convince myself I could focus on work. Really, I did.
The hospital was busy—too busy to think about anything else. Patients came and went, monitors beeped, nurses called for supplies, and I moved from room to room, focusing on sutures, vitals, and charts. But no matter how hard I tried, my mind kept replaying the rooftop. His lips, his hands on my waist, the way his eyes had searched mine.
I shook my head, trying to ground myself. Focus, Grace. Focus.
And then… he was there.
Dr. Maet C. Passing me in the hallway, coat flung over one shoulder, file in hand. Our eyes met for the briefest moment—long enough for my chest to stop, long enough for my heart to leap in a way that was entirely unfair.
"Grace," he said softly, just loud enough for me to hear. Not a greeting. Not a question. Just… my name, spoken in that way that made my knees weak.
I swallowed and forced myself to look down at the chart in my hands. "Doctor," I murmured, voice too light.
He walked past me, but the warmth of him lingered, like the ghost of his body pressed against mine. I could feel it, even as he disappeared around the corner.
I tried to focus again. You can't let him get to you. You can't.
Minutes later, I was tidying the supply room when I felt someone behind me. My stomach dropped.
"Grace."
I froze. Slowly, I turned, and there he was again, leaning casually against the doorway. The way he looked at me made my heart stutter—a mixture of amusement, something softer, and something dangerously intense.
"You're distracted," he said, stepping closer, just close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.
"I'm fine," I lied, adjusting the chart in my hands like it was a shield.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes entirely. "You've been thinking about… that night."
I swallowed, my cheeks warming. "Maybe," I admitted softly.
He moved even closer, so close I could feel his breath near my ear. "You didn't run," he murmured. "Not really."
I couldn't answer. Every nerve in my body was alive, every heartbeat screaming.
Then he reached out. His fingers brushed mine... light, teasing, deliberate. I felt a shiver run up my spine. My chest rose and fell faster than it should.
"You're impossible," he whispered, voice low and rough.
"I could say the same," I breathed, barely holding myself together.
We were standing there in the quiet of the supply room, the faint hum of the hospital around us, and I felt the weight of everything unsaid, everything I wanted to say but couldn't. Weeks of denial, stolen glances, almost-touches—it all came crashing down in that moment.
His hand lingered near mine for just a second longer, fingers brushing against my skin, before he stepped back, his eyes holding mine with a quiet, undeniable intensity.
"I'll see you later," he said, voice soft, teasing, but heavy with meaning.
And just like that, he was gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the supply room, heart pounding, hands trembling, and my mind replaying every second of contact like a slow-burning fire.
I sank against the counter, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of the storm inside me. Every glance, every touch, every word had undone me, and yet I knew—I didn't want to be undone. Not by him. Not ever.
And just as I was finally trying to pull myself together, the intercom crackled.
"Grace? Room 312 needs assistance immediately."
I grabbed my clipboard and walked toward the room, but my steps felt heavier than they should. Because somewhere in the back of my mind, one thought wouldn't leave me:
He's waiting for me. I know he is.
---
The night shift was always quiet, but tonight it felt… heavier. Thicker. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for something. I tried to focus on my rounds, on the charts, on the beeping monitors—but my mind refused.
I couldn't stop thinking about him. The kiss on the rooftop, the way his hands lingered on my waist, the quiet promise in his eyes. I tried to bury it. I really did. But every time I saw him in the hallway, every time our paths crossed—even by accident—my heart betrayed me.
And tonight, it seemed like the universe was testing me.
I was checking vitals in Room 312 when I heard him.
"Grace?"
I froze. My heart lurched in a way that made me almost drop the clipboard. I looked up, and there he was... Dr. Maet, leaning against the doorframe, coat thrown over one shoulder, hair slightly damp from the humidity of the night. The light from the overhead lamp glinted off his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.
"I need your help with Mrs. Ayen's chart," he said, voice low, casual but there was something in it that made my stomach twist. Something like… he knew exactly what he was doing.
I swallowed, trying to steady myself. "Of course," I said, stepping into the hallway to follow him. My steps felt too loud, too deliberate, too aware.
He stopped halfway, turning slightly so that our arms brushed as we walked. Just a touch. Not much. But enough. My chest tightened. I could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle pulse in his arm against mine.
I cleared my throat. "We should—uh—look over the vitals first."
He glanced at me, and that corner of his mouth lifted just slightly the kind of small, knowing smile that made my heart seize. "Right. Vitals first," he said, voice soft, teasing, almost a whisper.
We worked side by side, leaning close over the patient charts, and every time our hands brushed—or accidentally lingered near each other—I felt electricity surge through me. I tried to stay professional, to look at the papers, to focus on the numbers. But his presence made it impossible.
"You've been quiet tonight," he murmured, not looking at me directly, but I could feel the heat in his gaze.
I forced a laugh. "Busy."
"Busy… thinking about me?" he teased, turning his eyes on mine finally. Dark, searching. I felt my knees weaken.
I looked away, biting my lip. "No."
"Grace," he said, stepping closer, until our shoulders brushed again. This time, longer. Intentional. My chest jumped. I wanted to step back, but my body refused.
He leaned slightly toward me, just enough for our breaths to mingle. "Don't lie to me," he whispered. His hand rested lightly on the edge of the chart, just beside mine, so close that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
I swallowed, heart hammering. "I'm not… lying."
"Good," he said softly. And then he stepped even closer, just a fraction, until I could feel his chest against mine.
My hands itched to reach up, to touch him, to anchor myself in the moment—but I stayed frozen, barely breathing, my heart screaming.
He tilted his head, eyes flicking to my lips for a second, long enough for my pulse to go wild. "Grace…"
I felt my knees tremble. "Yes?"
The world slowed. The beeping monitors, the fluorescent lights, the faint hum of the night—all of it faded. There was only him, only the closeness, only the tension that had been building for weeks, and the kiss that was hanging in the air, waiting for permission.
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. My entire body shivered. His hand moved slightly, resting at my waist, pulling me closer, just enough for my body to know what was coming.
And then—
The emergency alarm blared. The sharp, metallic sound shattered the moment, dragging us back into the hospital reality.
He pulled back instantly, hands lingering at my waist, thumbs brushing softly against my skin. "Not now," he whispered, voice rough with suppressed emotion.
I wanted to argue. I wanted to pull him back. I wanted… everything. But all I could do was nod, breathless, heart racing, chest heaving, and watch him walk briskly toward the ER.
I stood there for a moment, anchored to the spot, every nerve alive, feeling the ghost of his hands against me.