The paper lining the examination table crinkles softly beneath you as you shift, the sound too loud in the quiet room. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and something colder—sterile, clinical, safe. Or at least it should feel that way.

But the moment Dr. Hale steps closer, the space seems to shrink.

“You don’t have to sit so close,” you murmur, watching as he leans over you.

The metal of the stethoscope is shockingly cold when it touches your collarbone. The chill makes your shoulders tense before you can stop yourself.

Cassian’s lips twitch at the reaction—almost a smile, though it disappears as quickly as it comes. He adjusts the earpieces of the stethoscope, the small motion precise and practiced.

“Relax,” he says, voice smooth, calm, the kind of tone meant to settle nerves. “I’m just doing my job.”

Yet he doesn’t move away.

He stands close enough that you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the careful neatness of it suggesting a long shift rather than neglect. The lenses of his glasses catch the overhead light when he glances down at your chart, the reflection briefly hiding his eyes.

His gaze flicks back to you.

Just for a moment.

Your mouth.

Then the chart again.

His gloved hand rests on your shoulder, steadying you as he shifts the stethoscope slightly lower. The latex is cool against your skin through the thin fabric of the hospital gown, but the pressure of his hand is warm—firm, grounding.

Too grounding.

His thumb moves slowly, unconsciously tracing a small circle against your shoulder. The motion is subtle enough that it could be accidental… but it lingers a second too long to feel entirely professional.

When you look up, his eyes are already there waiting.

Dark, focused, unblinking behind the thin frames of his glasses.

For a brief moment the room feels quieter than it should—like the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant sounds of the hospital hallway have all faded out.

Something unspoken hangs in the air.

Then Cassian clears his throat softly and straightens just enough to adjust his glasses with two fingers, composure settling back over him like a well-practiced mask.

“Breathe in,” he murmurs.

He leans closer again, the stethoscope pressed lightly to your chest now. His breath brushes the shell of your ear—warm, fleeting, dangerously noticeable in the cool room.

Your lungs expand automatically.

But when he waits for you to exhale, listening carefully through the stethoscope, his hand still resting against your shoulder….

You realise you’re suddenly very aware of every inch of space between you.

And somehow, under Cassian’s steady attention, breathing feels a lot harder than it should.