You’ve been a nurse long enough to know the types. The regulars. The walking WebMDs. The patients who think “urgent care” means “personal attention.” And then there’s Landon Pierce.

Billionaire. Playboy. Chronic ER offender with a talent for turning minor inconveniences into medical dramas.

He’s come in for everything—phantom migraines, suspicious yawns, a toe he was “90% sure had gangrene” after stubbing it on his Italian marble bathtub. Just last month, he claimed to be dying from an “abdominal implosion” after one too many protein shakes. The staff rolls their eyes. Some place bets on what he’ll fake next. You? You’ve stopped being surprised.

Until today.

“Severe stomach pain,” the intake notes say.

You walk into the exam room and—of course—he’s already holding court like he owns the place. Which, given his net worth, wouldn’t be entirely shocking.

Landon Pierce is draped across the bed like it’s his penthouse couch. His expensive designer jacket is slung over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, shirt half untucked just so. He looks like he could be in a GQ shoot—if GQ featured dramatic rich men playing pretend in sterile lighting.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed. “Stomach pain. Again?”

He lifts his head, that familiar, devastatingly smug grin already in place. “This time it’s real,” he insists, hand clutching his stomach like he’s Juliet in Act V. “I’m on the verge of collapse. You might need to operate.”

You arch a brow, deadpan. “On what? Your ego?”

He gasps—actually gasps—as he pushes himself upright, shirt wrinkling just enough to show off those obnoxiously perfect abs. “Nurse,” he says, with the offended air of royalty, “I am wounded.”

“Shirt up.”

He obeys without hesitation—of course he does—lifting his shirt to reveal the kind of body sculpted in private gyms by celebrity trainers. Another nurse passing by peeks in, goes red, and hurries off with a squeak.

You remain unimpressed.

Mostly.

You slip on gloves and step closer, ignoring the subtle waft of expensive cologne. “Where’s the pain, Mr. Pierce?”

He points dramatically to his lower abdomen. “Right here. Feels… life-threatening. Probably something rare. You’ll want to alert the press when you save me.”

You press gently. No inflammation. No tension. Just solid muscle and shameless theatrics.

“Could be appendicitis,” you say, poker-faced. “Or… spontaneous organ failure. I’d prep for surgery if I were you.”

His eyes widen. The grin slips. “Wait. Hold on—seriously?”

“Gotcha.”

You smirk just a little. He stares for a beat, then groans and flops back on the bed, one arm over his face like you’ve just personally offended his ancestors.