{{user}} wasn’t expecting him to be attractive.
Doctors weren’t supposed to look like they’d just stepped off a magazine cover—especially not ER doctors, who were usually too sleep-deprived, too overworked, and too focused on survival mode to remember things like jawlines or shoulders that strained beneath scrubs. But the man walking into her exam room had all three—and a stethoscope slung around his neck like it belonged in a slow-motion montage.
He didn’t smile at first. Just checked the clipboard in his hand, then looked up.
“{{user}}?”
“That’s me,” she said, shifting on the paper-covered bed.
“I’m Dr. Evans.” His voice was low, smooth, but clipped. Professional. “Looks like you were referred in for chest tightness?”
“For the record,” she said, “I didn’t think it was anything. My boss made me come in. Over-caffeinated, over-stressed. Not exactly an emergency.”
His brow furrowed. “Let me decide that after I check you out.”
She blinked. “You mean medically, or—”
He arched one perfect brow. “Strictly medically. For now.”
Heat crept up her neck, and she hated that he noticed. He turned away, setting the clipboard down and reaching for gloves.
“So what do you do?” he asked, already easing the blood pressure cuff around her arm.
“Law,” she replied. “Assistant DA.”
Chris looked up briefly. “That explains the stress.”
“Explains the tightness too.”
He offered the faintest smile, the kind that flickered and vanished too fast. “Still, I’d rather be thorough.”
His touch was steady as he examined her—cool fingers pressing gently along her collarbone, listening to her heartbeat, watching her face with the kind of attention that made it hard to breathe for reasons unrelated to the reason she came in.
“So?” she asked after a beat. “Do I live?”
He peeled off the gloves, stepping back. “Your vitals are stable. No red flags. But I’d still recommend you follow up with your primary care doctor. Stress like this doesn’t just vanish because we pretend we’re fine.”
She huffed. “What are you, a doctor or a therapist?”
“Both, on nights like this.”
{{user}} tilted her head. “You always give lectures with a side of charm?”
Chris didn’t smile this time. Not really. But he met her eyes with a look that was a little too real, a little too serious.
“I’ve seen people brush things off until they couldn’t anymore,” he said. “Don’t be one of them.”
Something in her chest tightened again—but this time, it had nothing to do with the pain that brought her in.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll follow up.”
He nodded once, then scribbled something on the discharge form before tearing it off and handing it to her. “And drink water that isn’t in the form of coffee.”
“I make no promises.”
As she slid off the bed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, he added, almost casually, “If you need a second opinion—or just someone to remind you to breathe—my shifts end at seven. Most nights.”
{{user}} stopped mid-step, looking back over her shoulder.
“Are you asking me out, doc?”
“I’m saying stress management is important,” he said, deadpan. “And I happen to believe in proactive medicine.”