-Roxy Delgado:
Four weeks.
It’s been four weeks since Sloane walked into my room with her oversized glasses, her white coat, and that stiff professionalism she carries around like a weapon against me.
Four weeks of watching her pretend she doesn’t feel anything while her cheeks flush the faintest pink every time I call her "doctor" in a tone that is anything but professional. Four weeks of flirting shamelessly, deliberately, unapologetically — and watching her squirm, watching her stumble over her words, watching her try to find the shield of medical jargon to hide behind.
God, I’ve been loving every second of it.
And the funniest part? I thought at first it was just a game. That’s what it always is with me. A game, a chase, a thrill in the moment. I like winning. I like the adrenaline of wanting someone and making them want me back. But with Sloane... it’s different. It’s not only that I want her — it’s that I can’t seem to stop wanting her.
It’s her eyes. Green, muted at first glance, but alive when she gets caught up in explaining something, alive when she forgets to guard herself.
I could drown in them, the way they sharpen with focus, the way they soften when she thinks no one’s looking.
It’s her skin — pale like porcelain, untouched, unburned by the world I come from, the world I live in. She hides it under layers of clothes, but I’ve caught glimpses: wrists pale against my darker ones when she takes my pulse, the elegant line of her neck when she bends over me.
It’s her curves. And she doesn’t even know she has them. That’s the part that drives me insane. The way her body moves, all tucked away under fabric that’s two sizes too big, and yet, when she bends, when she shifts, when my hand has brushed her accidentally and I’ve felt the shape of her waist, the swollen of her breast, the curve of her hip — Christ. She could kill me and I’d go smiling.
And her hair — brunette, thick, almost always tied back in that bun she probably thinks makes her invisible, but all it does is taunt me. Because I keep imagining what it would look like loose, wild, tangled between my fingers, spread across my pillow.
Her lips — plump, natural, unpainted until recently. She’s not the type to sit for hours in front of a mirror, and she doesn’t need to.
They’re beautiful as they are. I’ve spent six weeks trying not to imagine how they’d taste, how they’d part under mine, how they’d sound gasping my name.
And then there’s her voice. My God. That voice. Warm and low, measured when she’s speaking casually, but it changes when she slips into doctor-mode, when she starts explaining something complicated to me. It gets faster, brighter, layered with this energy that betrays how much she loves what she does.
Half the time, I don’t understand half the words she says — all those long medical terms and Latin phrases — but I don’t need to.
I just sit back and watch her lips move, watch the way her brow furrows, listen to the way her voice lifts and falls, and I swear to God it does things to me I can’t even say out loud.
I can’t wait to hear that voice when I finally break her down. I can’t wait to hear how it sounds in bed.
My libido has been off the charts since the day she walked in. I dream about her. I wake up sweating, hear pooling in my lower abdomen and between my thighs, heart racing, sheets tangled between my legs because I can’t stop thinking about her hands on me, her voice in my ear, her glasses slipping down her nose as she leans closer. Every single day it gets worse.
But I’ve been careful. Patient. Slow. Because for once in my life, I don’t just want to sleep with someone and move on. For once in my life, I want it to mean something. I want it to work.
Sloane Pierce has no idea how rare that is for me.
Today feels different.
Today, I woke up with my chest buzzing, my stomach alive with butterflies I thought I was too old, too jaded to feel. I stretched in bed, flexed my leg, and remembered: the cast is off. Finally.
Four weeks of being taken care of, of being caged in silk and marble, and today, we start. Today, Sloane will actually be touching me in ways that aren’t just wound checks or bandage changes. Today is physical therapy.
And I can’t wait.
I pushed myself out of bed with a grin already tugging at my lips. I showered — a long, hot, steamy shower — scrubbing every inch of myself until my skin gleamed.
I washed my hair, massaged in the conditioner, let the black and red streaks fall down my shoulders, streaks I’d started keeping fresh just for her.
When I stepped out, steam curling around me, I felt like a queen dressing for her coronation.
I slipped into new pajamas — soft silk, blood-red with black trim. They clung in all the right places, skimmed over others.
I called it my "dress," because that’s what it felt like, a costume for a role I was determined to play today: the woman who would finally, absolutely, undeniably catch her doctor.
I brushed out my hair, leaving it down, cascading over my shoulders, catching light like fire. I added a touch of perfume, the one scent that always made people stop and inhale when I passed: dark, musky, with a hint of rose.
And then I stood in front of the mirror on my limping leg, studying myself. Not just the bruises that had finally faded, the scars that were still healing, but me. My body. My face. The hunger in my eyes.
For her. Always for her.
I perched on the edge of the vanity chair, checking the clock, counting minutes like hours.
My heart was racing in a way it hadn’t in years, like I was a teenager waiting for a crush to arrive. My fingers tapped against the armrest. My mouth was dry.
Then — finally — the sound.
A knock at the door.
My pulse jumped so high I thought it might burst through my chest. I whipped my head toward the door, trying not to look as desperate as I felt, but my lips were already curling into a smile.
"Come in," I called, steady, smooth, confident — even though inside, I was trembling with excitement.
The door opened.
And then she walked in.
And then I turned toward her.
And then —
My jaw nearly dropped to the floor.
My heart slammed so hard I almost stumbled.
Because Sloane Pierce was standing in my doorway, and she looked nothing like the guarded, hidden woman I’d been teasing for four months.
She looked like someone else entirely — someone radiant, breathtaking, magnetic — someone I couldn’t believe had been hiding all this time.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe ever, I was the one left speechless.