-Sloane Pierce
The morning had blurred into one of those stretches of time where hours vanished without my noticing. I’d moved from ward to ward, case to case, my hands steady, my mind sharp, as though exhaustion couldn’t touch me if I didn’t give it permission.
Rounds had been long, notes piling, charts waiting to be updated. I was deep into reviewing post-op scans for another patient—someone who actually *needed* my attention—when the hurried echo of footsteps pulled me out of my focus.
"Dr. Pierce!"
I looked up to find one of the nurses half-running down the hall toward me, cheeks flushed, hair escaping her bun. She clutched a clipboard like it might steady her breath.
"Yes?" My tone stayed clipped, professional, though my stomach tightened. Nurses only came running when something was wrong.
"It’s... it’s your patient. Delgado. Roxy Delgado."
Immediately, my pulse spiked. "What about her?"
"She’s complaining of a headache. She says the pain is worsening."
That made me pause. A headache? My mind raced back over the surgery notes, the scans, the hours I’d spent piecing her skull and skin back together. I knew her injuries. I knew the risks. And I also knew, with absolute certainty, that her vitals and follow-ups had been solid.
There was no reason for her to suddenly be in pain. Not like this.
Still, I didn’t argue. "Fine. Show me."
The nurse nodded quickly and turned, leading me down the corridor. My shoes clicked against the linoleum floor, each step in time with the steady hum of fluorescent lights above. I forced my shoulders to remain straight, my stride purposeful. Patients often mistook concern for panic, and panic only worsened situations.
When we reached room 214, the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.
And there she was.
Roxy Delgado. Lying propped up against a mound of pillows, one arm slung carelessly over the sheets, her dark hair a wild mess around her bruised face.
Her family was there too. All of them. Brothers scattered around the room like restless shadows, parents seated at her bedside, their tension palpable.
The moment I entered, the room shifted—every eye landed on me.
I ignored the weight of their stares and went straight to the bed. "Ms. Delgado," I said, brisk but not unkind, "I hear you’re in pain."
Her gaze lifted to mine. For a moment, she said nothing. Just looked at me with an expression that was far too composed for someone allegedly suffering.
Then her lips curled.
"My head hurts, doc. Thought you might want to check it out."
Something in her tone made my skin prickle. It wasn’t the voice of a patient reporting symptoms. It was something else—something playful, deliberate.
Still, I did my job. I set my clipboard down, sanitized my hands, adjusted my glasses. "Where exactly does it hurt?"
She touched her temple with two fingers, almost theatrically. "Right here."
I examined her carefully, checking for swelling, tenderness, any sign of neurological distress. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Her vitals remained stable on the monitor beside her, her reflexes sharp when I tested them.
"Any dizziness? Nausea?" I asked.
"Only when you leave the room," She blurted with a smirk on her face, causing my eyes to widen and my hands to freeze in the air.
The silence that followed was deafening. Her brothers all groaned in unison. One of them smacked his forehead.
"You’re fine," I said, finally leaning back. "There’s no indication of pain. No swelling. No sign of trauma. If you’re feeling anything, it’s residual pressure or even stress. Nothing more."
She smirked again, eyes glinting. "So that means you’ll keep checking me, right? Just to be sure."
I blinked. "That’s what routine follow-ups are for, yes. The staff will—"
"No." She cut me off, voice dipping lower. "*You.* You’ll check me. You’ll be the one." The words lodged in my chest. Around us, her brothers groaned, one dragging a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ, Roxy."
I blinked, making sure that my face is giving nothing away. I cleared my throat, repeating what I said earlier. "Well... Sure, your head appears fine. Healing well. No swelling beyond what we expect."
"Great," She said, eyes locked on me. "So when do I get out of here?"
I hesitated, flipping through the chart. "At least a week. You need monitoring, especially with your spine and leg injury."
"A week?" She leaned back, pouting. "I want to leave today. And when I do, you’re coming with me."
My brows drew together, what kind of nonsense is this. "Excuse me?"
"As my physical therapist," She clarified quickly, smirk tugging at her lips. "I think you’d be perfect."
I had been in enough hospital rooms to know the look. Some patients tried to bargain, some begged, some clung to denial. But Roxy Delgado didn’t look like any of them.
She didn’t ask me how long she would be here just because she wanted to know. She didn’t plead for an earlier discharge. No—she looked at me with those maddening dark eyes, smirk tugging at her bruised mouth, and said it like it was law:
"You’ll come home with me. As my physical therapist."
My first thought was that she must still be foggy from the sedatives. Post-trauma delirium wasn’t rare, and three days in a medicated haze could leave anyone confused. But there was nothing confused in her stare. It was too sharp. Too intent. Too sure.
I forced a professional smile, the kind I’d practiced for years until it became muscle memory. "Ms. Delgado, recovery from your injuries will require patience. You’ll have nurses, and later a licensed therapist, assigned to you when you’re discharged."
She tilted her head, gaze dragging deliberately down my coat, my hair, my glasses. "No. I already told you. It has to be you."
The room shifted with the weight of her words. Her brothers stirred uneasily, muttering under their breath. One of them, the tall one who seemed like the eldest, shot me an apologetic glance and hissed at her, "Roxy, stop it."
She ignored him.
My hand stilled on the clipboard. Years of training told me to redirect, to regain control, to reestablish boundaries. But nothing in my medical textbooks had prepared me for the ferocity of being wanted like that—like I was already hers, like she’d carved my name into her bones long before this moment.
"You’re not serious," I said quietly.
She smiled. "Dead serious. I want you." She smirked because she finally got what wanted. A reaction from me. " As my physical therapist."
Heat crawled up my neck, but I refused to let it show. Doctors didn’t fluster. Doctors didn’t blush. "T-this isn’t possible," I answered coolly, flipping the chart closed. "As I said, I’m not a physical therapist, I’m surgeon here. My job was to stabilize you. What happens after that is no longer my department."
Her smirk widened, as if she’d just won a battle I didn’t know I’d been fighting. "Then I guess you’ll have to change departments."
Her brothers groaned in unison, one smacking his forehead. Another muttered, "Here she goes again."
I stood straighter, spine taut. "Ms. Delgado," I repeated, voice firm, "I don’t make house calls. Your recovery will proceed under the care of the assigned team. That’s final."
And yet—even as I turned for the door, my pulse betrayed me, thudding far too loud in my ears. Because somewhere in the shadows of her grin, I saw something dangerous. Something unshakable.
Something that told me this woman didn’t hear the word "no." Something told me that she wasn’t asking me to be her physical therapist, she was telling I will be hers... Her physical therapist.