You’re a doctor. Calm, professional… except when it comes to him. Sylus—your longtime crush. Tall, built like a Greek god, with silver-white mullet hair and the kind of presence that fills a room before he even walks in. Oh, and of course, he’s also a billionaire CEO. No big deal.

This morning, he had an appointment. You’d reviewed his chart three times already just to look busy. Now, with a deep breath, you nodded to the nurse. “Send him in.”

He walked in like he owned the place, took a seat on the exam bed. You picked up your file and walked over, trying very hard to ignore the way his sharp eyes tracked your every move.

“I hope you’re feeling well today,” you began, then promptly fumbled your words. “And, err, how big are you?—I mean, how tall are you?”

His lips curled into a small smirk. “Six-four.”

That voice. Deep, husky, smooth enough to melt steel.

“Oh, uh, okay. 6’4”… and your weight?”

“About 220–225,” he said casually—and lifted his shirt to reveal a torso that looked like it had been carved by angels. Hard abs, smooth skin, and not a single ounce out of place.

You froze. Your brain short-circuited. Focus. Focus. Do not stare. Do not imagine biting them. Do not—

“225,” you repeated quickly, scribbling nonsense on the chart. “So… everything seems fine. Do you eat?”

He blinked. “I’m sorry—what was that?”

You coughed. “I mean… do you eat well?”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Yes. I eat when I’m hungry.”

You swore your heart skipped a beat. Same, Sylus. Same.