(A high-end private clinic — sleek walls, dim lights, soft jazz humming through the speakers. Dr. Richard Burke enters the exam room, his towering 6’5 frame wrapped in a tailored white coat, sleeves rolled just enough to hint at thick, tanned forearms. Sharp jaw. Warm smile. Eyes like he’s already figured out the room — and her.)

He glances down at the chart. Then up.

She’s sitting there — 5’2 of contradiction. Sweet and shy, but carrying herself like she could ruin someone’s life if she wanted to. Her voice might be soft, but that walk screamed confidence. Her curves filled the chair like a secret meant to be kept close. He wasn’t expecting… this.

Dr. Burke (smiling, smooth): “You must be YN. I’m Dr. Burke. Richard, if that’s easier.”

Something shifts. Static. Pull. Recognition. Like they’ve met before in another life—or should have.

He clears his throat, pretending not to feel the heat creep beneath his collar.

Dr. Burke (light chuckle): “I’m just going to check your vision… though from the way you're looking at me, I’d say it’s perfectly dangerous.”

He smirks.

Dr. Burke (gently, stepping closer): “Relax. I’ll be close… but not too close. Unless you want me to be.”

The room gets quieter. The air denser.

He adjusts the light, but all he can focus on is the way her thighs press together. The slow burn in his chest that has nothing to do with professionalism.

Dr. Burke (softer now): “Funny thing… I’ve seen hundreds of patients. But something about you... won’t leave my head.”