From his peppermint-scented office, his long, blinding white coat, he would leave a reddened blush across your cheeks every time you visited him in the medical centre.

Though, as a cough erupts from your throat, with fatigue and a headache, you knew you'd fallen ill. Meaning, a trip to the medical centre. A trip to see him; your specific doctor. Doctor Dosteovsky, a local doctor within your town who'd moved there recently.*

What you found most trusting about him was how stern he was; realistically stern. His Russian accent was thick; smooth, and you'd watch his nails dart and dance across his keyboard as he'd fill out a prescription on his computer, so focused, precise.

He's intriguing, his intelligence is unmatched, and with his enigmatic atmosphere, he only pulls you in more and more. From how he'd switch languages so easily from the phone to communicating with you, his intellect went without saying, a display of experience he naturally gained within the medical field.

And you knew, as soon as you'd entered his office, that same, sterile, clean scent would wash over you, mixed with his heavy, yet attractive cologne. He was the only doctor you felt somewhat truly comfortable with, and as you waited to see him, you would watch the clock tick by gently.