Page 31 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“Yeah, it’s normal.”

“You need to rest.”

“I am,” she says defensively. “Any time I can put my leg up, I do. The filming part isn’t as long as you think.”

“Then why can’t you leave? Rest at home?”

“I have lines in between, like asking the competing couples questions.” She pauses, and I realize I’m just standing there, staring at her, when I should be working.

“Can you lie back so I can take a look at your ankle?”

She nods and shifts, slowly reclining on the bed. As she moves, there’s a small hitch of breath—hers, not mine—and her face tightens, a flicker of pain crossing her features. My mouth clenches. “When did you last take a pain reliever?”

“When I was just leaving the set.”

My body settles at that, the tightness leaving my muscles. “Good.”

I pull a stool closer and sit down so I’m level with her foot. My hands move to the bandage. The elastic material is soft under my fingers, slightly warm from being against her skin. I unwind it slowly, watching as each layer reveals the splint. Removing it, I look over her ankle and foot.

Her skin is pale and smooth, with bruising. The incision site is clean, the stitches holding, and there’s minimal swelling. I run my fingers lightly over the area, checking for heat or unusual tenderness, and her leg tenses slightly under my touch.

“How’s it looking?”

“Everything is as it should be.” My voice comes out firm but gentle, the tone I use when I want to reassure a patient. I glance up at her, catching the relief that flickers across her face, and my expression softens just a fraction. “You’re doing good.” The words aren’t entirely true. She’s pushing herself too hard, ignoring recovery protocol, prioritizing work over healing. But in this moment, I’m not the doctor who’s frustrated with her choices. I’m the person who sees how terrified she is of failing.

“So, any chance I can heal faster? Get my foot into normal shoes before six weeks?”

There it is. The question that confirms what I already knew. She’s thinking about getting back to normal, at full capacity, back to proving she’s indispensable.

“None.” I shake my head. “You need to stay in the boot and bandage for the whole six weeks, and I’ll reassess it then. No shortcuts, Hannah. You rush this, you risk permanent damage.”

She deflates a little, and I feel like an asshole, but it’s the truth.

I leave the Steri-Strips over the incision site, put a medical sock over the top, and then strap the splint back on.

“You’re done. I’m sending you straight to physical therapy today before you leave, They’ll assess you and fit you with a boot to replace the splint. I’ve already called ahead.”

“Oh,” she says, and there’s disappointment in her voice. Or am I imagining it because that’s how I feel? Like I’m not ready for her to leave. But I have no idea why. I barely know her, yet I want to keep talking; to get to know her more.

I stand and hold out my hand to help her sit up. She slips her smooth palm into mine. Her nails are painted a soft pink, in a polished, expensive, manicured way. It reminds me of Yolanda. Of sitting across from her at restaurant tables when she tapped those perfect nails against her wineglass, bored and checking her phone. Of how she’d spend two hours at the salon every week, how appearance was everything.

I don’t want that again. I don’t want someone who needs the glamor or the validation. And surely, Hannah, with her Hollywood job, stylist, makeup artist, and designer clothing, would be the same.

Even as I think it, something in my chest clenches against the idea. But I ignore it.

I turn to grab her crutches from where I leaned them against the wall and hold them out for her.

“Thanks.”

I lift my glasses and prop them on my head. A habit when I’m done with close work. But also because I want to see her more clearly without the barrier.

She smiles, and it makes my heart thump. It’s so pretty, a small dimple appearing at the bottom of her cheek on one side. I try not to overthink her smile. It’s just her being polite… that’s all that it is. That’s what I tell myself, even as something in me wants it to be more. Wants it to be for me.

But that’s fucking stupid, and I know it.

“I hope you have a good afternoon.”

“You too. Physical therapy is just down the hall. Do you need me to take you there?”