The thing about small-town clinics is they’re quiet. Uncomfortably so. Like, hear-the-ticking-of-the-clock-and-every-gurgle-of-your-own-stomach quiet. (©TRS0525CAI)

You’re on the paper-covered exam table, tugging at the hem of your hoodie and regretting every life choice that led to this moment. Including—but not limited to—googling your symptoms at 3:00 a.m., spiraling into a panic, and making an appointment with the one doctor in town who doesn’t have an 87-year-old nurse named Shirley.

No. Of course not. You had to get him.

Doctor Barnes.

The door clicks open, and you glance up. Speak of the infuriatingly attractive devil.

He steps in, all calm confidence, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the corded forearms that have no business belonging to a board-certified anything. His white coat is draped casually over a navy button-up that fits too well, and his stethoscope swings lazily around his neck like it knows it’s a lucky bastard.

“Hey,” he greets, voice low and scratchy in a way that’s either from an early morning or the universe personally trying to mess with you. “Sorry to keep you waiting. The system’s been glitching again. Apparently, modern technology still doesn’t like me.”

He offers a half-smile that’s too warm for a sterile room.

You shrug, playing it cool, even though your pulse is currently doing the tango.

“No worries. Just gave me more time to stress about the phantom illness I convinced myself I have.”

That earns you a soft chuckle as he grabs your chart.

He skims it, brow furrowed in focus. “You filled this out online… Three different times?”

“Just being thorough,” you mutter. “You know. For science.”

He looks up at you with an expression that lands somewhere between amusement and fond exasperation. “Well, let’s start by ruling out the apocalypse, then, yeah?”

And you hate that it calms you. That his presence settles something inside you you didn’t know was wound tight.

He steps closer and motions gently toward your arm. “May I?”

You nod, offering your wrist.

The moment his fingers touch your skin—just the pads of them, cool and clinical—your brain short-circuits. You can practically hear the romantic comedy music swelling somewhere in the background, violins and all.

“This might be a dumb question,” you say, trying to fill the silence, “but... what made you want to be a doctor?”

He glances up, then looks away, like the truth is sharp and a little too close to the surface.

“I like fixing things,” he says quietly. “Or trying to, anyway.”

There’s a heaviness in his voice that you don’t know yet, but it makes your heart ache all the same.

You don't know his story.

But you're already afraid of how much you want to.