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You don’t love Zayne.
Not one bit.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself in the midst of a freezing December midnight, tossing and turning in your sheets with a terrible ache settling in your chest that won’t go away no matter how many ounces of water you gulp down. You lose yourself in the grains of your ceiling, limbs laying limp and sprawled across the mattress, vision slowly turning blurry as you refuse to focus.
Your memory is flooded with the images of Zayne in his pristine white coat, deft hands scribbling on his clipboard as he discussed with you the pain you feel in your chest.
Everything is normal, he says.
You took lab tests, ran on a treadmill, took an ECG, and everything came out perfect.
So he prescribes you to rest and lessen the overtime—to which he already calls the Hunter’s Association to follow his orders.
And you can only offer him a meek nod, smiling sheepishly at your nonsense check-up that he bothered to attend to.
Zayne only responded with a curt shake of his head, telling you it’s his job.
You don’t love Zayne.
You tell yourself as you shift your weight to the side of the bed, swiping down the notifications panel of your phone—unable to control the clench in your ribcage when there were zero replies from him. You shove the device under the pillow, gnawing on your bottom lip as you shakily run your hand over your face. There was no reason to fall for your doctor. It was unethical, unprofessional, and beyond ridiculous to even contemplate on the mere thought.
But when Zayne calls you at 8 PM and finds you still at the Hunter’s Association, giving you an earful of resting and not overworking yourself to the bone when he does the complete opposite; Or when he picks you up amidst the crazy traffic jam with the car stereo already playing your favorite songs; Or when he brings over your favorite meal claiming he made too much; Or when he personally bandages your lacerations at the ER when there were already a handful of standby nurses to tend to you; Or when he delivers desserts from when he’s out of town; Or when he took care of you when you were coming down with a horrible fever just a few days ago–
You can’t help it.
Not when your heart leaps out of your chest when his skin grazes yours even for a millimeter. You can’t help it when heat rushes to your cheeks when he swipes off an icing from the corner of your mouth. It’s not your fault when you find yourself looking for every corner in search of his presence, walking briskly through the streets to just catch a glimpse of his perfectly-ironed black button-down top and glistening specs. And it’s out of your control with how your stomach churns and your throat tightens when you notice his usual straight lips curling up and sharp eyes softening at the woman he is conversing with at a cafe.
You couldn’t seem to look away.
Eyes glued to the scenario playing across you.
You felt like a third character in a romance drama reeling on weekday nights. Your fingers tremble beside you, nails clawing on the fabric of your pants. People pass by you, occasionally bumping into your side and huffing by your ear, mumbling protests under their breath.
But you couldn’t understand a word they were saying.
No matter how many times the stop light flickered to green and red, you stood frozen in time. Watching Zayne across you, divided by a single pane of glass, swipe his thumb over the corner of the woman’s mouth and his pupils dilating.
Until you’ve watched enough.
You turn your heel and immediately march back to your apartment, heavy breaths escaping your chapped lips and the blurry bright lights from the streetlamps and tall buildings finally coming to life.
You don’t love Zayne.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you gripped on your duvet a little too tightly, pulling them up to your chin with an unfamiliar stinging sensation from your eyes.
Because you knew you could’ve fallen for your next door neighbor who drops you snacks and paintings of Linkon landscapes every Sunday, the college friend who you’ve been with since the start of that one project, or even that colleague at the Hunter’s Association who would join you in missions and get your back during combat. Unfortunately, you find yourself pulled to your primary healthcare physician whose interactions with you are purely professional.
It was so utterly foolish that you feel like banging your head across your pillow and scream until you pass out.
You love Zayne and you felt stupid to think you could have him just because you think he cared for you.
On the other hand, Zayne is in a dilemma.
Something that he cannot find an appropriate answer to in every search engine or textbook, online forums appear to be nuanced, and he lacked the experience and expertise in the field. He tried observing his patients who were accompanied by their spouses and lovers, noted colleagues and their left ring fingers, and even subtly watched passersby in the cafe with intertwined fingers with their partners.
But to no avail.
Zayne is in a dilemma–he seems to be in love.
And he doesn’t know what to do with it.
He tossed for the umpteenth time in his bed, sheets tangling in his limbs. The ticking of the analog clock and whirring of the AC echoes throughout the empty room, he catches a glimpse of the former.
12 AM .
And despite his assumption that his exhaustion from three scheduled surgeries, one emergency, and two administrative meetings would wear him down, he’s still wide awake for twenty-five hours. He stares right at the blank ceiling, breathing steadily as he reminisces the conversation he had with Greyson earlier.
Greyson had been knocking on Zayne’s door for the past two minutes with no response from the latter. He supposes Zayne had an emergency surgery but the sign by the door was relatively clear: The doctor is: IN.
With a concerned frown etched on his face, he twists the doorknob to his office, “Dr. Zayne?” He calls out, peeking through the small gap. He finds his coworker deeply entrenched in his notes, the crease between his brow deepening, and his fingers twiddling on his favorite blue pen.
“Dr. Zayne,” Greyson utters again.
Zayne finally snaps out of whatever spell he was in, turning his attention to his colleague from across the room. “Greyson,” he begins, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yeah,” Greyson nods, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “But before that, what’s got you in deep thought?” He asks, foregoing the work conversation in the meantime. “What do you mean by that?” Zayne asks, “I seem to be perfectly fine.”
“I have been knocking on your door for the past two minutes. You weren’t answering, so instead I let myself in and caught you absorbed in your notes,” the brunette replied as-a-matter-of-factly. He takes a peek into the pad of paper and sees the busy slate of nothing. “That you don’t seem to have,” he jests.
He notices Zayne’s lips being pulled into a thin line, a habit he’s noticed whenever he seemed hesitant to share about something.
“It’s nothing of importance,” he insists. Greyson merely raises a brow at him, staring at him incredulously. “Sure. The Dr. Zayne who is known for his laser focus and attention got his head up in the clouds for something trivial ,” the other man replies.
Zayne purses his lips as he watches Greyson take a seat from across his table, crossing his legs as if to say he will not go until he unloads the burden he’s carrying.
With a resigned sigh, Zayne succumbs, “I have been feeling rather… odd symptoms lately. Something I am quite unfamiliar with.”
Panic momentarily flashes across Greyson’s features, his head tilting to the side, “Symptoms? Are you okay? Do I need to inform the HR that you need to take the day off?”
Zayne abruptly shakes his head in disapproval, waving his hand across him, “No, no. That won’t be necessary. I am not that unwell.”
“Then… What happened?” His colleague asks, concern lacing his tone.
“I have consulted this matter to Dr. Noah but it seems he finds it amusing,” Zayne replies, grimacing. Before Greyson could ask any further, Zayne continued, “He merely laughed in my face and told me to think about it.”
Greyson’s frown only deepens. What kind of doctor laughs at his junior for consulting him about symptoms that he is experiencing? He bit his tongue. “What did you tell him?” He instead says.
Zayne darts his gaze elsewhere, focusing on the neatly arranged bouquet of pens by his organizer. “My heart seems to quicken, my hands get clammy, and my face and neck seem to heat up when I find myself… thinking about a certain person.”
Greyson blinks. This was certainly not on his bingo card of concerns that Zayne may have.
“Does… it seem to get worse whenever you are around this person?” He asks. Zayne nods, “It seems so.”
He catches Zayne’s fixated stare at a set of pens hastily tied together by a pink ribbon and the creased card attached to it, as if it was opened numerous times before.
No wonder Dr. Noah laughed in his face.
“Dr. Zayne are you… sure that you are unfamiliar with these symptoms?” Greyson asks for one more time, just to check if he wasn’t mishearing things. The other man shook his head, “100% sure.”
“And how long have these symptoms persisted?” His colleague asks.
Zayne racks his brain for an answer, “This predicament has been bothering me for several months now.”
Several months since a certain someone surges into his life like a raging thunderstorm, Zayne wants to say.
Greyson stares at him analytically, adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat. Zayne merely watches him with expectant eyes.
With bated breath, Greyson answers, “Dr. Zayne, I think you might be in love.”
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.
Zayne was undeniably, irrevocably, and rather foolishly in love.
Slowly, Zayne drags his gaze away from the collection to his colleague sitting across him. Suddenly, weight pressed against his shoulders in spite of the feeling that the room lit up as soon as the words stumbled from Greyson’s mouth.
He cocks his head to the side, “Love?” He asks, the word foreign and tasting sweet.
Greyson nods.
The world expands in Zayne’s vision, a new fluttering sensation lingers in his stomach, lips clamped shut in deliberate realization.
Despite trekking through unfamiliar lands, he continued, “How… Does one respond to love?”
Regardless, Greyson shrugs, “I’d say accept it.”
Zayne waits for his assistant to elaborate. “There’s not much time in this world to wallow in the ‘what-ifs’, y’know? It’s best for a person to embrace the feeling and confess rather than spending the rest of your life with regrets,” he said. Zayne merely nods in acknowledgement in Greyson’s answer before proceeding to changing the topic.
That was twenty hours ago.
Twenty hours have passed and still, Zayne remains clueless.
Or rather, afraid.
In spite of Greyson’s advice, uncertainty still lingers in the air. He realizes he is in an uncharted territory, he could not bring himself to pour his heart out to the girl that he’s been looking out for for years. Too terrified that everything will change, especially when you need him the most with your condition.
After all the hours of ruminating over his predicament, he realizes it all boils to one thing–unfamiliarity frightens him.
Because how can he tell you that he loves you when he was your healthcare physician? He was your doctor that needed to help you treat your heart and track your health, not to worry you with superfluous feelings of love that you probably didn’t need. He was a doctor. He isn’t supposed to be feeling these things nor look out for your entire wellbeing.
He was just your doctor.
He tells himself as he notices you weren’t replying to his messages a couple of days ago.
And the first thing he does is rush to your apartment.
Yeah, he’s just your doctor.
That same doctor whose back of his hand is gently pressed against your forehead, his brows creasing at your shivering state. “It’s freezing,” you weakly mutter, attempting to pull the duvet closer to your body to which your physician stops you from doing. “Just a little longer,” he mumbles, pushing the strands of your hair away from your sweating forehead. A thousand thoughts run through his brain as he tries to rack an answer from it, wondering the cause of your sudden illness.
The beep beep beep from the thermometer cuts Zayne’s thoughts off and he pulls the device from your skin and holds it up to his eyes.
39.0 °C
You feel delirious. You’re seeing Zayne on your bed, tucking you in and pressing a cold, damp cloth on your forehead. Why is your doctor here on a weekday? Who called him in? How did he get in your apartment?
Too weak to ask the questions, your lidded eyes trailed over his figure who was busying himself with reading the labels of the medicine he brought over to your apartment. You breathe heavily through the sheets, staring at him as he served as your entertainment while you were fighting for your life against the harsh illness.
“Is there any pain aside from your fever?” He asks carefully, putting aside the medicines and turning to you.
“Head,” you croaked.
“Is there anything else?” He probes, hoping he would get some sort of answer from you to find out the root cause of the problem.
“Tired,” you panted, as if you just ran a ten kilometer marathon, “Very.”
He hums, pressing the palm of his hand against your hot cheek, his thumb grazing against your skin and you can only stare at him blankly with lips slightly apart. You can feel the palm of his hand growing colder against your skin. He purses his lips and he says in a whisper, “Have you been working overtime again?”
You merely give a slight nod as an answer, too frail to use your mushed brain. He frowns at your answer before sighing, massaging your forehead and neck instead with his evol activated in his hands.
“I’ll scold you when you get better, but for now…” Zayne trails off as he watches your eyes stare at him blankly while tucking you in, “Get some rest. I’ll call the Association with regards to your health.”
And as if hypnotized by his words, your body slowly descends itself into slumber.
In the following days of your demented state of mind and dying fever, for some reason, you would find Zayne in your apartment before the sun sets. You would hear the scuffling of his socks against your floor, the sizzling of the pan in your kitchen, and soon he’d settle on your bed, pulling you up to rest against the headboard and spoon feeding you with the meal he had prepared for your recovery. He would then make you drink your medicine, take your temperature, and set on your nightstand a glass full of warm water.
That was a couple of days ago.
You didn’t bother dropping by the hospital for a check up, afraid that you wouldn’t be able to sit through the entire thing after witnessing the most heartbreaking scene you have ever watched in your life that romantic movies didn’t compare.
But your non-appearance didn’t guarantee Zayne the peace of mind he needed. So as soon as you mustered the courage to get over the scenario playing in your head on repeat, you snatched your phone from the dresser and messaged him that you are okay and you thank him for taking care of you, and ensuring to apologize for bothering him.
He only replied with a thumbs up emoji.
You’re unsure whether to let out a sigh of relief or curl up in your mattress in shame.
But one thing is certain, you love Zayne and the best way out of it is to pretend you’re not as helpless as you think.
Except all efforts remain futile as you continue listening to the soft hums of your AC in the dead of the night, body remaining stiff under your duvet. You want to release the feeling bubbling in your chest, you want to curl your fists and crumple the sheets, or even just let the tears flow to your cheeks.
To no avail.
The memory is etched in your brain like a pesky parasite destroying your flower bed on a warm spring day and you can’t use any pesticide in fear of contributing to its complete eradication. It continues to reel in your head like a vinyl record stuck on a loop that only stops when you forcibly intervene.
Everything in the moment terrifies you to an unfamiliar degree.
All of a sudden, a wave of exhaustion washes over you, maybe your heart finally decides it’s had enough of wallowing in your self-pity. As your eyelids grow heavy and the grip on your duvet becomes limp, you slowly find yourself succumbing to sleep.
Lucky you, because two hours have passed and Zayne still remains unmoving atop his mattress.
There was a longing ache in his ribcage, something that felt missing.
Something that urges him to physically grasp his shirt and twist in his fist.
And with zero hesitation left in his body, overwhelmed by the sea of emotion lapping up in his chest, he snatches his phone off the bedside counter.
Immediately, he finds your number.
One ring.
Two .
Three .
Maybe you were asleep.
I mean you should be.
After giving you that lengthy discussion about the health benefits of sleeping and consequences of staying up all night, he expects you to follow his orders.
Four .
This is stupid.
He should be sleeping too–
“Zayne?”
Oh.
“Hello,” he speaks over the phone, holding it tightly beside his ear.
Suddenly, pitter-patters of rain tap through his window.
“Hello…?”
He clears his throat, noticing the grogginess in your voice, “It’s raining,” he says.
Zayne imagines the way you rub your eyes blearily, listening carefully to the slight rustles of the sheets from beneath you, “I’m well aware, Zayne. But that does not explain why you called at–” you pause and he hears a soft grunt from you, like propping yourself up with your elbow physically strains you already, “–almost 2:00 am.”
Oh.
What is he thinking?
What is he supposed to say?
Rain continued to pour from the outside, growing exponentially stronger with every second that passed. He realized he just disturbed you in your sleep, something that he almost begs on his knees for you to follow. This is silly, he thinks. He shouldn’t be doing this.
“...Zayne?”
“I just thought of you. That’s all,” he replies almost immediately.
Zayne thinks of the way you frown or possibly jut your lips out in confusion, knitting your brows together at the situation. “I don’t think the Zayne I know would disrupt my sleep over that,” you state, seeming that you were just as puzzled as he was in the scenario.
There was another beat of silence between you two.
You almost exhale a sigh as you plop to your mattress, laying supine. Your eyelids grow heavier with the accompaniment of the rain beating down your roof and your phone slipping from your fingers as the softness of your pillow and duvet warmly engulfs you.
“I think I may be in love with you.”
Your lips part as sleep completely takes over you, your phone landing a soft thud on your bed and your body completely going limp.
Zayne calls out your name.
Once.
Twice.
Until he realizes he should take the matter in his own hands.
Your dreams were nothing short of sorrowful.
It felt like your brain’s taking a cruel play on you with the way it reels clips of you being happy with a mysterious man. Your ring finger glistening brightly whenever the sun casts its light onto you. You giggle at some joke the man says, palm running up and down his bicep affectionately as you two walk down a familiar street. He laughs along the sound of your chuckles, drunk on passion and affection that you yearned for.
You were mystified with the way he carries your conversations so effortlessly, nodding earnestly to every word you say, and throwing you the sweetest smile you have ever received from anyone. You wrap your arm around his tighter, listening to the way he compliments your hair brushing across your skin and your dress flowing delicately in the autumn air.
Then you hear it, the words “I love you” that tumble from his lips.
You shake your head disbelievingly and turn your head to the surroundings around you. Christmas lights glow across the trees and wrapped around the streetlamps, melting into a drunken haze that seemed unreal. Then a knock urges you to turn your head to the side, only to be met with a harrowing sight across you.
It was Zayne again with that woman.
Your brows furrow and you scowl, remembering the way air constricts in your throat the same way it did the first time you saw the scenario.
Another series of knocks that urge you to stare at the woman across him. The face was blurry, you couldn’t seem to make out any significant features from his partner. But the way Zayne smiles for her was a crystal clear image.
A particularly loud knock jolts you awake.
You sit straight in bed, your heart hammering in your chest as you crane your neck across the room.
Your eyes couldn’t comprehend the images across you, remnants of sleep still haunting your vision. Until you notice your brightly-lit phone strewn beside your pillow.
In bright, bold letters, as if to taunt you, you squint your eyes to read.
Dr. Zayne
00:31:56
He didn’t hang up?
Knock knock knock.
Oh.
Swallowing thickly, you ignore your phone and pad your way to your apartment, head still dizzy from the sudden awakening.
And you didn’t even bother peeking through the peephole, despite the dangers that your lack of actions posed.
But as soon as you swing your door open, your jaw drops to the floor.
Zayne didn’t have a reason to stand by your doorstep, drenched from head to toe, heaving breaths like he ran a marathon in the midst of a typhoon but here he was–his eyeglasses lopsided and the usual white button down top and black trousers turn slightly sheen as it clings to his skin. Before you can open your mouth to speak, Zayne mutters, “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head disapprovingly but with no words further exchanged, you quickly usher your doctor inside your apartment, scrambling around as you hand him a fresh towel and turning the heater up.
You couldn’t even muster up words even if you tried. Your eyes remain wide and in shock as your brain refuses to piece together that your doctor is inside your apartment, drying himself off in your bathroom that probably smelled of lavender and vanilla.
As if going against your wishes, your heart picks up its pace again. Thousands of questions run through your head with your shallow breathing echoing through the expanse of the living room.
Were you still dreaming?
Yeah, this must still be a dream, you tell yourself. There’s no way Zayne would be here in your apartment at– you glance at the clock– 2:30 AM.
He still has work tomorrow, you’re sure of it. He’s never taken a day off, after all.
But why else would he be here?
Why?
Your train of thought cuts off with the way he plops beside you into the couch, eyes zoning off to the sounds of the rain playing in the background. He lounges in the old college sweatshirt an old boyfriend left ages ago in your dresser and a pair of stretched-out shorts that hung too low on his waist.
The whole scenario was theatrical, it seemed something that jumped out of the romance books that you once read in high school. Something about finally getting together with the man of your dreams after hopelessly yearning for him from afar.
But you quickly dismiss the thought as you remember the girl he was once with.
She is probably a lover of his, you surmised. There was no other way that you caught him shamelessly melting into her presence after all.
“I have to tell you something,” his words cut through the tension like a knife, “And I am afraid this could no longer wait until tomorrow.”
You purse your lips, staring idly at the way your fingers pull at the loose thread of your worn-out shirt. “Okay,” you hoarsely reply.
Zayne shifts in his seat, knees turning to your direction, compelling you to angle yourself to his way.
And you make the mistake of catching a glimpse of his eyes.
You find his pupils dilated, gloss shining over it, with his lips trembling and slightly ajar.
The same way you found him one warm day with the woman across from him.
Except, you can’t help but notice the absolute longing in his gaze as he bores his eyes to you.
“I know this may seem unnerving and unforeseen,” he begins, almost tripping over his words that make you tilt your head to the side in confusion, “But I noticed I have been exhibiting symptoms that are unfamiliar to me. Something strange that I somehow do not pick up from any of my patients.”
“Are you okay, Zayne?” You ask, physically restraining yourself from giving into the itch of resting your hands atop his.
He swallows thickly, shaking his head, “I’m afraid I’m not,” he says. And those words alone make your heart sink in your chest. You open your mouth to speak until he continues, “I am terrified that if I don’t linger myself in your presence or have your hands enclosed in mine, or even reading your messages first thing in the morning, I might lose it.”
You furrow your brows.
“I search for you in my patient records every day, hoping you would request for a check-up just for a mere visit and invitation for lunch. I think of you in every love song that plays on the radio that it feels silly to have you constantly running in my thoughts. I remember you with every bite of a sweet dessert that melts in my tongue, knowing you would enjoy it wholeheartedly more than I do.”
You press your lips in a tight line.
“I am afraid it has gotten to me fiercely that I can no longer hold my feelings back,” he declares, hands reaching out to yours and cupping it tenderly. Then, he leans close to your space, breathing shallowly, “I am in love with you.”
Your heart pauses.
“I love you.”
You blink once.
Twice.
And you don’t know it yet, but the way you dawdle in your silence has Zayne on wit’s end. He searches for your gaze, desperation clawing its way in his ribcage. He feels his stomach churn and he halts his knees from bouncing rapidly against your floor.
“...Are you sure?”
It was his turn to blink at you.
You squeeze your eyes shut, “I-I mean! I just don’t think–”
“You don’t seem to understand the magnitude of my feelings for you,” he says, cutting off whatever hesitation that tempts to fall from your tongue.
“But aren’t you already seeing someone else?” You ask, slipping away from his grasp, “I don’t want to be the cause of someone else’s pain, Zayne.”
“ Seeing someone?” The words alone felt too foreign and raw for Zayne to even say out loud. “Who am I possibly seeing?”
You pause, hands turning clammy underneath his scrutinizing stare. “You were with her a couple of days ago at the cafe we used to go to,” you reply.
“... Her?”
A cold shiver runs down your spine as you hear the unforgiving tone in his voice and you only nod in reply.
“She’s simply a friend,” he says flatly, “She was talking about her upcoming wedding and she thought of inviting me.”
“Oh.” You turn your head to the side before looking back to him again, “As the groom or…?”
Zayne couldn’t resist the chuckle that escaped his lips, “As a guest.”
“ Oh.”
A ghost of a smile remains plastered on his face and you rack your brain of the answers that lead you to this situation. Unfortunately, your head was anything but stable and capable of rationalizing the circumstances around you.
And for a second, Zayne’s smile falters and hesitation engulfs his chest.
Perhaps it was truly a mistake running over to your place at the crack of dawn in his wrinkled clothes just to confess the immense swell in his chest whenever he sees you.
He knew it was ridiculous from the get-go.
He knew it went against professionalism and upholding all ethics possible.
But who could blame him when all he thought about the moment he lays to rest and the second he wakes up is you?
He couldn’t blame himself for feeling that way and yet he still couldn’t escape the overpowering feeling of his heart shattering in two when Zayne notices the absolute reluctance in your eyes.
You slither your hands away from his hold and he feels his world crumble apart.
Maybe it truly was a mistake going over here because clearly, you don’t feel the same–
“I love you too.”
His entire world spins.
“I have always loved you, Zayne.”
Then, he finds himself cupping his hands over your cheeks, desperate to lock your gaze into his which seem to be fully engrossed with your coffee table.
“I loved you enough for me to deny that I do but I can’t deny it any longer. I have loved you so much that it began to physically hurt me,” you continued.
“I could say the same thing to you too,” he replied, “I yearned for you in ways that I did not know was possible nor conscious. I longed for your presence like a fool that I had to seek medical experts to figure out why I was feeling that way.”
His words elicit a giggle from you and his fingers gently tug your jaw to his direction, “I remember requesting a check-up from you because of the same reason,” you say and he only releases a hearty laugh.
You expect Zayne to respond to your words with the same dry humor that you’ve been accustomed to, or perhaps shake his head disapprovingly.
And yet, you weren’t prepared for the next thing that he says, “May I kiss you?”
You would be a fool to turn his request down.
With your heart hammering in your chest and a slight nod, Zayne inches closer to you until his breath fans against your cheeks. The corner of his mouth curled slightly upward in delight and Zayne could feel the heat rushing to his neck, his ears twinge a bright shade of red. And with a beat of certainty and after an eternity of pining for you shooting up his system, he leans in and presses his lips to yours delicately.
Your breathing catches in your throat while he molds his chapped lips against yours, eyes squeezed shut, and tongue reluctantly swiping against your bottom lip.
And with a single heavy breath, he says, “I have no idea I could feel this way. I have completely fallen for you in ways I couldn’t even imagine.”
You giggled against his mouth, slightly pulling away and Zayne had to regain his composure to not let his disappointment show in his face, “I had no idea I would also receive such a confession that seemed to jump out of a romance novel.”
He smiled, pressing his forehead against yours, “I had no choice. My body ran faster than my brain could catch up. All I knew was I needed to rush to you.”