Page 48 of Just One Little Bargain

He picks up an instrument from the tray now, turning it over in his long fingers.

“What is this?” He stares at me, eyebrows furrowed. “Because I’ve seen torture equipment, and this looks worse.”

“It’s a speculum.”

“A what?”

“You don’t want to know.”

He inspects it, his entire face scrunching. “This looks medieval.”

“It’s for . . . actually, you’re not wrong.”

He sets it down carefully. “Doctors actually use these?”

“Regularly.”

“Voluntarily?”

“More or less.”

Milo stares at it, then shakes his head and backs away from the counter.

Then he spots the wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser and pumps it once. Then again. By the fourth pump, enough foam has gathered in his palms to sanitize a small village, and he stands there rubbing his hands together with increasing concern.

“That’s enough,” I say.

He looks at his hands, still coated in foam. “Are you sure? I handled the medieval device.”

“You picked it up. You didn’t perform a procedure.”

“But it touched someone’s skin and—”

“Milo, it was clean.”

He rubs harder, foam squelching. “What if it wasn’t?”

“It was autoclave sterilized. That means—”

“I know what an autoclave is.” He pauses. “Actually, no. What is it?”

A laugh escapes, short and startled, pulled from somewhere I didn’t give permission to access. His whole face changes when he hears it. A flicker of surprise, followed by a slow, crooked grin that transforms him. His loose, lanky frame straightens.

“There it is.” Milo stares at me like he’s hearing a word he’s been mispronouncing his whole life spoken correctly for the first time.

My cheeks heat. “There’s what?”

“You’ve been shredding that paper since we got here. That’s the first full breath I’ve seen from you.”

“I’ve been breathing the entire time. It’s a basic requirement for being alive.” And now I can’t stop noticing my own inhales, which is his fault entirely.

Verdict officially in—I’ve gone insane. Or, I’m living in an alternative reality.

The door swings open with a soft creak and Milo goes rigid.

I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t spent most of the wait inadvertently studying his every move, but the change is immediate: his spine straightens, his weight shifts forward, and the hands that had been restlessly testing drawer handles and counter edges go dead still.

Doctor Damien Devereaux strides in with a tablet tucked under one arm, already scanning the chart as the door swings shut behind him. His white coat pulls crisp over dark slacks and a pale blue button-down as he moves, and he pushes black, artfully tousled hair off his forehead. He’s thirty-two. Allegedly. I’ve never managed to pry out his skincare routine, but I suspect it involves either superior genetics or some form of witchcraft.