I knew she had a thing for me the second she started avoiding eye contact. People who didn’t have a crush didn’t go rigid like a deer in headlights when I walked into the room. They didn’t suddenly forget how to form coherent sentences. And they sure as hell didn’t spend half their appointment looking anywhere but at their doctor.

But her? She was like an obscenely priced med-school textbook.

“Alright,” I said, flipping through her chart. “Looks like you’ve been having some migraines?”

She nodded, focused very intently on the spot just over my left shoulder. “Mhm.”

“Frequency?”

“Uh…” A pause. Then, “Sometimes.”

I arched a brow. “Right. How many times a week is sometimes?”

She cleared her throat, shifting in her seat. “Like…two? Three? Four?”

“That’s quite a range.” I leaned back against the counter, watching her. She was fidgeting with the hem of her sweater, knuckles tense.

“You seem nervous,” I mused.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “I—no, I’m just—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I’m not nervous.”

I fought back a smirk. Sure.

I let the silence stretch, just enough to make her squirm, before I pushed off the counter and grabbed my penlight—is this the most virtuous use of my degree? Teasing poor patients? No bur in my defence, I save people everyday. Let me live—“Alright, sweetheart, let’s check your eyes.”

Her breath hitched.

I pretended not to notice.

Leaning in, I gently tilted her chin up, the pad of my thumb just barely skimming her jaw. The moment my fingers made contact, I felt it—the sharp inhale, the way her pulse jumped under my touch. I could practically hear the mental screaming.

Yeah. Definitely a crush.

I flicked the light across her pupils, watching them dilate. “You seem fine,” I murmured. “Nothing concerning. For now, though you should work on your hydration. And stress.”

She swallowed. “Right.”

I stepped back, penlight clicking off. “Anything else you wanna tell me?”

A beat of silence.

Then, with a voice so quiet I almost laughed, she spoke.