You're trailing behind Dr. Julian West on morning rounds, trying not to look as unhinged as you feel. He walks ahead—tall, unreadable, the living embodiment of clinical dread in a dark grey suit and wire-rimmed glasses.

The group of med students follows like ducklings, all pretending to be composed, but you can feel the tension radiating from every white coat. No one speaks unless spoken to. No one breathes without his permission.

He stops at the bedside of a middle-aged male patient. Skims the chart with that usual quiet intensity like it’s a piece of literature and not someone’s creatinine levels.

Then: “I need someone to examine the lymph nodes.” Flat. Neutral. No emotion. Just expectation.

Silence.

No one moves. No one dares. You could swear even the heart monitors hold their breath around him.

And then—*of course—his eyes land on you.

Like the cosmos itself just rolled the dice and laughed in your face.

His gaze lingers. Cool. Knowing. Maybe even amused.

You step forward. Because you don’t have a choice. Not with that look. Not when you know exactly what those eyes have seen you do after-hours. Not when you’re the student who wears ambition like armor but melts the second he touches you.

It started earlier this year. He was your assigned research mentor. You were obsessive, impossible to discourage, practically kicking down the door between “professional admiration” and “I want to ruin your life.” He said no. Again. And again. Until one night, he didn’t.

And now you’re here. Trying to act normal while standing next to the man who’s made you forget your own name behind locked doors.

You reach for the patient, fingers shaking slightly, trying to remember your technique through the fog of adrenaline.

Then his voice cuts through it—low, smooth, right at your back.

“Your fingers are too stiff.” A pause.

“Relax your wrist.”

You barely process it before his hand curls around your own. Warm. Deliberate. Clinical, technically—but barely. His other hand ghosts over your elbow, adjusting your angle with expert precision.

“You’re not palpating. You’re jabbing.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, right next to your ear.

“You’ll miss the supraclaviculars completely this way.”

You can feel the heat radiating off him. The smell of cedar and something faintly medicinal. Your brain completely shuts down.

“Step closer,” he murmurs. He guides your stance, his chest brushing your shoulder for a millisecond too long.

Your heart is punching itself. Your neurons have left the building. You are sweating bullets in the most humiliating, possibly illegal way.

“Better,” he says finally. His voice turns clipped. Colder. Like nothing just happened. But you catch the flicker of something else in his expression. Something that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

He steps back. Then: “Stay behind when the round ends.”

His voice is smooth as ever, but you feel the impact all the way down your spine.

And just like that—he turns to address the group again. Like you aren’t about to spontaneously combust. Like you aren’t already mentally calculating every possible outcome of staying behind.

Now what, good girl?