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Her heartbeat echoed through the room—soft and steady, like the sound of rain on glass. Isabel lay still, fragile in her plaster shell, lashes fluttering slightly as she drifted in and out of the warm fog of exhaustion. Her casted leg remained elevated on the pillows he had arranged for her, and her face—flushed and delicate against the collar of her brace—was turned just slightly toward him now. Dr. Hart swallowed. He shouldn’t be feeling this. Not in this moment. Not when she was so hurt. But there was something about the way her fingers clung to his… the way she looked at him like he was her anchor in a sea of pain. Her vulnerability didn’t repel him—it made him want to guard her with everything he had. He let his eyes trace her gently: the way a single tear clung to her lashes, the way her lips parted when she exhaled, the faint tremble in her fingertips. Her body was a map of trauma—but it was still hers, still beautiful. Still Isabel. She opened her eyes again—heavy-lidded and dazed—and met his gaze. “I don’t want to sleep alone,” she whispered. Dr. Hart let out a slow breath, as if her words cracked something inside his chest. “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “I’ll sit right here. Just like this.” Her casted fingers shifted against his hand, stroking once. “You’re so warm,” she mumbled, cheeks blooming pink again. “Every time you touch me, I feel… better.” The air between them felt heavier suddenly. Charged—but not inappropriate. Not wrong. Just close. His heart thumped once—hard—in his chest. The steady beat of her heart on the monitor synced up with his own. He leaned in a little. “I think it’s you,” he said, voice low and gentle. “You’re making me warm.” Her lashes flickered. She smiled, tired but amused, almost bashful beneath her pain. “You’re blushing, Dr. Hart.” “So are you,” he replied quietly, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead. Their hands were still entwined. Her arm cast creaked faintly with the motion, and she whimpered—a soft, pitiful sound that made him go still again. Immediately, he reached down, adjusting the pillow beneath her elbow. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” She nodded faintly, then murmured, “Will you talk to me while I fall asleep?” He gave a crooked, tender smile. “Sure. But if I start reading you my orthopedic textbooks, don’t blame me.” “I’d listen to anything from you,” she whispered. His throat tightened again. The quiet pull of her affection—raw and aching—tugged something deep inside him. This wasn’t just patient and doctor. It wasn’t just protocol. He wanted to be the one to carry her through this. To touch every part of her world that hurt and heal it. And so he stayed beside her, holding her casted hand with quiet devotion. He talked about the sky outside. About the flowers she’d been sent. About her favorite music. All the while, his thumb brushed slow circles over the inside of her wrist. ——- Morning came slowly. Sunlight spilled in through the wide windows in ribbons of gold, catching on the edges of Isabel’s casts and warming the soft linen blanket draped lightly across her hips. The city beyond the glass was still, wrapped in haze and quiet like the inside of a dream. Isabel stirred. Her lashes fluttered, eyes sticky from sleep. Her neck brace shifted slightly as she moved, and the deep ache in her shoulder made her flinch. But it was different this morning—dull, distant, like it had been wrapped in cotton. The first thing she saw was him. Dr. Hart. He was asleep, sitting in the chair beside her bed, arms folded, one ankle resting across his knee, stubble casting a shadow along his jaw. His white coat had fallen open over a black Henley. One of his hands still rested near hers, fingers curled gently around her casted wrist. She blinked at him—soft, slow blinks of disbelief and comfort. He hadn’t gone home. He’d really stayed. She tried to shift, but her leg cast pulled her back with a quiet whimper. That sound did it. His eyes opened instantly—brown and dark with sleep, but clear the moment he saw her face. “Isabel?” he said hoarsely, leaning forward. “You okay?” She gave a weak smile, her voice still raspy from dreams. “Yeah. I just… didn’t expect to wake up and still see you.” His hand found hers again, thumb brushing over her plaster cast. “Didn’t want you to feel alone.” There was silence for a beat. Just the morning light, and their breathing, and the soft warmth building in her cheeks. “You look tired,” she said gently, taking in the lines under his eyes. “I am tired,” he admitted, rubbing at his temple. “But it was worth it. You slept through the night. No spike in heart rate, no pain flares, no calls to radiology at 3 a.m.” She laughed softly—winced from it—and pressed her cheek into the pillow. “You monitored my heart rate while you slept?” “I didn’t sleep much,” he confessed, tilting his head. “You were making little noises. Talking in your sleep.” Her face flushed deeper. “Oh no.” He smirked. “Mostly mumbling. Except for when you said my name.” She let out a quiet groan, casting her gaze toward the ceiling. “That’s embarrassing.” He leaned in, his voice dropping just a little. “It wasn’t.” There was a beat between them—just enough for the air to shift. Then, as if trying to ground herself, Isabel whispered, “Dr. Hart… thank you. Not just for the care, but for… all of this. The kindness.” His smile softened. “Call me Nathan, Isabel. Just for today.” Her name in his voice sounded like something sacred. “Nathan,” she repeated, testing it, tasting it. He looked at her like he hadn’t expected to feel something so sharp in such a soft moment. “Yeah?” “…Can you help me sit up a little? Just to sip some water?” “Of course,” he said, already reaching for the remote to raise the bed. He moved slowly, carefully, steadying her good shoulder and adjusting her pillow. And the whole time, her eyes never left him—watching how his brow furrowed with focus, how gently he touched her, how his voice never dipped below tender. —— The tray table had been rolled away. The blinds drawn just enough to soften the daylight. And Isabel was propped up now—slowly, carefully—on several pillows, her body casted and braced in thick layers of plaster and gauze. Her hospital gown had been gently adjusted for modesty, but she still felt exposed in her vulnerability. Both arms were wrapped in casts—one to the shoulder, the other slightly shorter. Her neck remained stiff in the soft cervical collar. Her left leg was fully casted, elevated on the pillows Nathan had arranged the night before, the weight of it a constant reminder of her immobility. Still, she looked better than she had the night before. Her skin had color. Her lips, though still chapped, had returned to their soft pink. Her dark hair was messy, her bangs a little tousled—but her eyes were clear. Nathan stood beside her now, fresh in his full doctor mode. Hair tied back neatly. Stethoscope looped around his neck. Sleeves of his fitted white coat rolled up to the elbows. The edge of a tattoo peeked out above his wrist, but everything else about him was crisp, clean, in control. He’d brought a portable cast saw, fresh bandages, and a warm basin of water. “We’re going to do a partial cast change,” he explained, his voice professional but warm. “The leg cast is holding, but there’s some irritation under the heel. I need to relieve the pressure, clean the skin, and possibly rewrap the lower section.” Isabel nodded, but her brows furrowed slightly. “Is it going to hurt?” “A little,” he said honestly, stepping closer. “But I’ll go slow, and I’ll talk you through every step. I’ll keep the pain minimal.” She looked up at him, then murmured with a slightly shy smile, “Okay… Nathan.” He paused. God, the way she said it—like she was testing the edges of the word, making it hers. He cleared his throat, then gave a faint smile. “I’m going to begin, alright?” She nodded. He pulled on gloves with a soft snap and knelt beside her casted leg, placing the tools on a cloth-covered tray. His hands moved methodically—cutting along the side of the cast near her ankle with precise pressure, the vibrating blade careful not to touch skin. Isabel winced. “I know, I know,” he murmured. “Deep breath, sweetheart. You’re doing great.” He cut through the edge, then slowly peeled back the plaster, revealing her swollen skin beneath. Her heel was red, the tissue tender and tight from pressure. He exhaled softly. “You’ve been a little compressed here,” he said gently. “But it’s okay. No breakdown. No ulceration. We’re in good shape.” He reached for a warm compress and laid it gently under her exposed foot. Isabel whimpered, her eyes fluttering closed. “That okay?” he asked. “It’s so hot,” she whispered, “but it feels… good. Like it’s breathing again.” He smiled. “That’s what we want. Let the skin breathe. Let the tension soften.” He cleaned the area with practiced ease, working the sponge around the arch of her foot, her heel, between her toes—slowly, like the night before, but this time with a more clinical rhythm. Still gentle. Still reverent. “Now,” he said, looking up at her with those steady brown eyes, “this is the part where I give you choices.” Her brows rose slightly. “We can do a soft dressing and keep the cast open for a few hours while you rest, or I can fully recast now with a pressure pad in the heel to prevent further damage.” Isabel blinked. “What do you think?” “I think you trust me,” he said, voice softer now, “so I’ll tell you what I’d do if you were mine.” Her breath caught. His voice dropped lower, playful but laced with something else—something warmer, deeper. “…I’d recast it right now. Do it carefully. Secure you the way you deserve. Because I wouldn’t want you hurting like this for another second.” Isabel flushed. Her face went warm—cheeks pink beneath her tousled bangs. Her fingers curled where they rested beside her casted hip. Mine. It echoed in her mind like a dropped pebble into water. If you were mine. God, she wanted to be. And that terrified her. But she had to keep her composure. He was still watching her—carefully, curiously—but his hands stayed busy, dipping gauze in water, wringing it out. She tried to look anywhere but his face. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked, tone still light, but quieter now. “No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. His brow lifted just slightly. “No…you didn’t do anything wrong, I just thought it was sweet. I know you’d take great care of me, you already do.” She hoped that he couldn’t sense that deeper feeling forming inside her. It was warm and nauseating at the same time. She put on a little smile and cleared her throat as much as her thick neck brace would allow. “So, what do you say Doctor?” Adding an extra layer of playfulness to the word doctor. “I’d recast it now,” he said, unwrapping a fresh roll of plaster. “Support the heel properly, elevate it again, and monitor it overnight.” “That does sound nice.” She smiled faintly, letting her eyes rest on him. He looked up at her from the floor, heart aching just a little more than he expected. “Then let me take care of you right.” And he did. “You need your leg secure,” he said, gentler now, almost a whisper. “Let me take care of that. Then we can circle back to everything else, okay?” She nodded, heart thudding louder than it should have. He dipped the plaster wrap, wrung it out, and began to lay the strips along her lower leg with clinical care—but she noticed how slowly he worked now. How his fingers lingered near her ankle. How he cradled her foot like something breakable even though she was already broken. With slow, warm hands, and careful pressure, he rewrapped her broken leg—not too tight, not too loose. He built a soft cradle of gauze at the heel and secured it in fresh plaster, gently pressing it around the contours of her leg. Isabel watched him, her breath steadying with every layer he added. And when he finished, he stood, peeling his gloves off and resting a hand lightly on her shoulder. “All done, Isabel.” Her head tipped toward him. She looked so small in that bed. So helpless. But also… so loved. “Thank you, Nathan,” she whispered. “For everything.” He smiled—and this time, it reached his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”