You shifted in the stiff plastic chair in the waiting room, anxiously scrolling through your phone, pretending the routine gynecologist appointment wasn’t making your entire nervous system short-circuit.
You’d already filled out the forms. Ticked every box. 'Irregular cycles.' 'Occasional pain.' 'Hormonal symptoms.' Nothing dramatic. Just something you’d been meaning to check up on.

"Patient for Dr. David?" the nurse called, glancing at the clipboard. You froze. David? That name scratched at the back of your brain like a ghost.

You stood slowly, grabbing your purse, still not fully processing.

But the second the exam room door swung open, and you saw him—tall, dark curls a little longer than you remembered, lab coat hanging open over black scrubs, glasses low on the bridge of his nose—your stomach flipped.

"Oh my god."

He looked up from the tablet in his hands. Stared. Blinked.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me." he said, his jaw dropping. "You’re my patient?"

"You’re a gynecologist?" you shot back. "Since when?"

"Since med school. Since growing up. Since—you know, leaving that tiny town where you dumped me via handwritten note at the age of sixteen."
You groaned, covering your face with both hands. "KiII me."

"No can do," he smirked, pulling a stool up beside the table. "I’ve taken an oath."
"I’m not letting you examine me. Absolutely not."

"You can request a transfer," he said, glancing at the chart. "But full disclosure, there’s a three-week waitlist, and your symptoms look kinda serious. I mean, if it were me, I wouldn’t want to delay treatment."