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“Again.”

I do.

He steps back. “Normal.”

“Shocking. My lungs continue their unpaid labor.”

“Excellent work from them.”

“Don’t encourage them. They’ll unionize.”

This time he does smile properly. Small, quick, gone too soon.

I count it as a victory.

He checks my abdomen gently, asking before he touches me, which somehow makes my throat tighten more than if he had not. There’s nothing dramatic to find. No big moment. No magical sign of pregnancy under his hand.

Just me.

Trying not to think about how strange it is that he’s here, doing this, after knowing me first in every wrong order possible.

When he finishes, he pulls off the gloves. “Everything looks good.”

I exhale. “Good as in medically good, or good as in you’re saying the word to bother me?”

“Both.”

“Efficient.”

“Yes.”

Claire returns to draw blood for the repeat hCG. While she preps my arm, Dalton reviews the next steps. Repeat level. Early ultrasound later. Symptoms to watch for. Call if bleeding, severe pain, fever, dizziness. It’s all standard.

It’s also strangely calming in his voice.

I hate that part most.

Claire leaves with the sample, and I press cotton to my arm.

Dalton watches me for a second. “You did well.”

“I sat still while someone took blood. Please hold the applause.”

“You didn’t argue.”

“I’m growing as a person.”

“Debatable.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Yes.”

The answer is so immediate that I laugh again.

He leans back against the counter, arms folded, and for the first time since I walked in, he looks less like Dr. Price and more like the man who told me radial nerve injuries in the dark.

“What made you choose medicine?” he asks.