Public speaking had never been your thing. Scalpel? Steady. Emergency case? Composed. But a microphone and an audience of dozens—no, hundreds—of donors and hospital board members?

Instant panic.

You stood backstage clutching your notecards, palms damp. The speech was important—funding for a new surgical wing depended on it. But your throat was tight, and your mind was blank.

“Hey,” a voice said gently. “You’re breathing like someone just told you you’re doing brain surgery on your own mother.”

You turned to see Jackson Avery leaning against a table, arms crossed, amusement softening into empathy when he saw your expression.

“I’m not good at this,” you muttered.

Jackson stepped closer. “You’re great at everything you do. This won’t be any different.”

You huffed. “Pretty words aren’t going to fix stage fright.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Lucky for you, I’ve got more than pretty words.”

Before you could question him, he took your notecards and set them aside.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

You did.

“Now breathe with me.” Slow inhale. Slow exhale. He matched your pace—calm, steady, grounding.

“Better?” he asked.

“A little,” you admitted.

“Good,” he said, smiling softly. “Now talk. Not to the audience. To me. Just me. Pretend I’m the only one out there.”

You hesitated. “That’s not how speeches work.”

He shrugged. “It is today.”

You tried. You stumbled through the first lines, voice shaky. Jackson nodded encouragingly after every sentence.

“See?” he said when you paused. “You sound passionate. And strong. People are going to listen to you.”

“They’ll be staring at me,” you groaned.

Jackson laughed. “Yeah, probably. Especially when you look like that.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

He took a half-step closer, eyes warm but intense. “Like someone worth listening to.”