The moment Morales' radio crackled with that infuriatingly knowing "Bring a fan," Ava's fingers twitched against the edge of her desk. Her breath still came in shallow, uneven bursts, her skin prickling with the ghost of embarrassment—and something far more stubborn. She swallowed hard, forcing her shoulders back as she stood, the chair rolling away with a quiet thud against the cabinet behind her. Her blouse clung to the damp curve of her spine, the fabric cool against her heated skin. She didn't dare look down at her phone again, though she could still see the flicker of movement on the screen in her periphery, a silent accusation. Instead, she dragged her fingers through her hair, smoothing the disarray as best she could, then rebuttoned her blouse with sharp, efficient movements. The last button at her collar resisted, the fabric slightly warped from her earlier haste, but she forced it closed. Professional. She had to be professional.
The hallway beyond her office was a study in controlled serenity—wide, polished floors reflecting the muted glow of fluorescent lights, the air carrying the faintest hint of lemon disinfectant and something green, like crushed mint. Not the sterile, antiseptic bite of most hospitals, but something almost alive. Large floor-to-ceiling windows lined the corridor, framing the skeletal branches of ancient oaks outside, their leaves dappling the sunlight into shifting patterns on the linoleum. Smaller plants—fern fronds and peace lilies—sat in ceramic pots along the walls, their leaves trembling slightly whenever a nurse or orderly passed. Ava exhaled through her nose, rolling her neck to ease the tension coiled there. She could still feel the phantom press of her own fingers between her thighs, the ache of interrupted release throbbing in time with her pulse.
She stepped out, letting the door click shut behind her, and nearly collided with a passing intern. The young woman—barely out of her residency, if Ava remembered correctly—sidestepped with a murmured apology, her eyes flicking down to Ava's hands before darting away. Ava ignored the scrutiny, lifting her chin as she turned toward the east wing. The rhythm of her rounds was muscle memory by now: chart reviews, medication adjustments, the occasional reassuring squeeze of a patient's hand. But today, every movement felt too deliberate, her skin too sensitive beneath her clothes. She could still hear the echo of her own breathy moans in her ears, still taste the salt of her fingers when she'd pressed them to her lips.
Then she saw her.
Nurse Elara; dark-haired, sharp-eyed, the same woman who'd been standing across the hall when Ava's phone screen had betrayed her, emerged from the supply closet, a stack of fresh linens balanced against her hip. Their gazes locked and the air between them thickened, charged with something electric and mortifying. Elara's cheeks flushed a violent crimson, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out. Ava's stomach dropped. She knows. The thought slithered through her, hot and ugly. But then Elara shook her head, just once, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion. "Didn't see a thing, Doctor," she said, voice too bright, too quick. She sidestepped Ava without meeting her eyes again, the linens rustling like a guilty secret between them.
Ava's exhale was shaky, her fingers curling into her palms. She should've felt relief. Should've let it go. But the way Elara's pulse had jumped in her throat, the way her breath had hitched—she'd seen. And now they both knew the other knew. Ava's nails bit into her skin, the sting grounding her. She didn't have time for this. Didn't have the luxury of unraveling. Not here.
She forced herself to move forward, her heels clicking against the floor with practiced precision. The east wing was quieter than usual, the hum of monitors and the occasional murmur of voices the only sounds. She paused outside Mr. Hendricks' room, glancing at his chart before stepping in. The old man was dozing, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythms. She adjusted his oxygen tube, her touch clinical, distant. When she spoke, her voice was smooth, unbetraying. "Sleep well, Mr. Hendricks." He grunted in response, shifting slightly, and she slipped out before he could wake fully.
Two more rooms. A quick consult with a resident about a post-op patient's vitals. A signature on a discharge form. Each task was a lifeline, pulling her further from the wreckage of her office, from the way her body still hummed with frustrated need. But no matter how many charts she reviewed, no matter how many neutral, professional smiles she pasted on, her thoughts kept circling back to him.
Mateo.
The realization hit her like a physical blow. She faltered mid-step, her hand pressing against the wall for balance. The cool surface did little to steady her. It wasn't just the lingering arousal, the way her body still craved release. It was the way her chest ached when she thought of him, the way her fingers itched to touch him—not as his doctor, but as something far more dangerous. As his.
She swallowed hard and turned toward his room.
The door was slightly ajar, the way it always was when he was resting. Ava pushed it open with the barest touch, the hinges whispering. The air inside was warmer, thick with the scent of antiseptic and something uniquely him—warm skin and the faintest trace of sweat, the musk of illness and something darker, more intoxicating. Mateo lay on his side, the sheets pulled up to his waist, one arm flung above his head. His dark hair was damp at the temples, curling slightly against his forehead. The monitor beside his bed beeped softly, a steady, reassuring rhythm, but his breathing was shallow, uneven. Fever dreams, probably. She should've adjusted his meds earlier.
Ava moved to the chair beside his bed, the legs scraping lightly against the floor. She sat slowly, her skirt whispering against her thighs. For a long moment, she just looked at him. The sharp angle of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. His lips were slightly parted, dry and cracked at the corners. She reached out before she could stop herself, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was burning. She should've called for ice packs. Should've paged a nurse. But she didn't move.
"It's very iniquitous of me," she murmured, so quietly the words barely disturbed the air between them. "To develop feelings for you."
Her thumb traced the curve of his eyebrow, her touch feather-light. She knew she shouldn't. Knew every second she lingered was another crack in the dam of her professionalism. But God, she wanted. Wanted to press her lips to his temple, to the pulse point at his wrist. Wanted to climb onto the bed beside him and let her hands learn every inch of him, not as his doctor, but as a woman who had spent too long pretending she didn't ache for him.
A soft sound escaped her—a laugh, or maybe a sob. She didn't even know anymore.
Mateo's breathing hitched.
Ava froze. His lashes fluttered, just once, but his eyes remained closed. She should've pulled away. Should've left. But she didn't. Instead, she let her fingers slide down to his cheek, her palm cupping the warmth of his jaw. "You're going to be the death of me, Mateo," she whispered. Her thumb brushed his lower lip, and this time, she saw it—the way his throat worked, the way his fingers twitched against the pillow.
He wasn't asleep.
Ava's breath caught. A thousand warnings screamed in her head, but her body refused to obey. She leaned closer, her lips hovering just above the shell of his ear. "I can see you, you know," she murmured, her voice a dark, honeyed thread. "I can feel you."
His Adam's apple bobbed. The sheets over his lap shifted, just slightly.
Ava's stomach tightened. She knew what she'd find if she looked down. Knew, because her own body was traitorously warm between her thighs, her nipples tight against the fabric of her bra. The air between them was thick enough to choke on.
She should've left.
She didn't.
Instead, she let her fingers trail down his throat, over the ridge of his collarbone, before pulling away with deliberate slowness. "Sleep well, Mateo," she said, her voice steady despite the way her pulse hammered in her wrists.
Then she stood, smoothing her skirt, and walked out.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Mateo waited until her footsteps faded before he let his eyes open.
The ceiling tiles above him were water-stained, the pattern familiar from too many hours staring at them. His body was a traitor. The erection straining against his hospital gown was painful, the fabric abrading the sensitive head every time he shifted. He groaned, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead.
Fuck.
He could still feel her touch, like a brand on his skin. Still hear the way her voice had dropped, low and rough, when she'd whispered to him. I can feel you.
His free hand fisted in the sheets. He should've been ashamed. Should've been disgusted with himself. He was sick. She was his doctor. And yet, every time she came near him, his body reacted like she was the cure.
He shifted onto his back, the movement sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through his cock. The gown tented obscenely, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide the wetness at the tip, the way he leaked just from the sound of her voice. He bit down on his lip hard enough to taste copper, his hips arching involuntarily.
"Pathetic," he hissed under his breath.
But it didn't change the truth.
She wanted him.
And God help him, he'd let her ruin him.