You’d been trying to ignore the sting in your lip all day. It had started as a stupid accident — you slipped in the kitchen, your face catching the edge of the counter just right. Now there was a small but deep cut on your lower lip, the kind that wouldn’t stop bleeding. Your mom had taken one look and said, “You’re going to the clinic. That might need stitches.”

So here you were, sitting in the waiting room, fiddling with the hem of your sweatshirt while the quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the space. You could taste the faint metallic tang of blood. When the nurse finally called your name, you stood, heart thudding for no real reason, and followed her into a small, bright exam room.

The door opened a minute later, and he stepped inside. Taller than you expected, with broad shoulders that filled out his crisp white coat perfectly. His light brown hair was just the right amount of tousled — like he’d run a hand through it without really trying. Mid-thirties, maybe. The name badge on his coat read: Dr. Starkey.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “What happened here?”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, but your voice cracks just a little. “I cut it on the kitchen counter. Mom said it might need stitches.”

“Let me take a look,” he said, and before you could stop yourself, your heart sped up.

When he leans in, you catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the clinical smell of the room. His gloved fingers gently lift your chin, brushing just over the cut — and your breath hitches. You look up, meeting his eyes, clear and blue, holding a kind of steady patience that feels both comforting and oddly electric.

“You’re a lot braver than most kids your age,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just enough to make your skin crawl in the best way. “Gotta be careful next time, though.”

You flushed, looking away for a moment, but then met his gaze again. There was something unspoken hanging in the air — a tension that made the room feel smaller, warmer, somehow charged.

“I’m going to stitch this up, okay?” he said, pulling out the needle and thread. His hands were steady, but you could tell he was paying attention to every little reaction you made.

“This might sting. But don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

As he worked, you couldn’t help but notice how his gaze lingered on you — curious, maybe a little amused.

“You’re handling this better than I expected,” he said with a half-smile. “Most people flinch.”

You bit your lip — literally and figuratively — trying not to let the awkwardness get to you. There was this strange mix of professionalism and something else, something harder to define.

When he finished, he paused, his eyes holding yours longer than necessary.

“If it hurts too much, or if anything feels off, you know where to find me,” he says, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead.

His gaze holds yours, electric and heavy. For a moment, the room shrinks, and it’s just you and him — and the unspoken possibility hanging between those quiet breaths.