God. I’m painfully hard.
Just theideaof it has me ready to spill.
Patience, Eli.
All in good time.
Emily
Tom is waiting for my answer, but I can’t stop watching Eli.
I’m sure—almostsure—I just saw something flicker in his eyes when Tom mentioned dinner. A flash of something dark. Possessive. Jealousy, maybe. But it vanished too quickly for me to be certain.
I shake myself internally, forcing a bright smile in Tom’s direction. I'm annoyed he'd bring up dinner in front of a patient. It's unprofessional. But still, it would be rude to cancel now. “Yes, absolutely. See you tonight.”
Tom’s face lights up like a kid who just got picked first for football. “Great. I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says, already turning toward his office.
Eli doesn’t wait. He stalks off without a word, without even glancing back, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff.
And still, somehow,Ifeel guilty.
Ridiculous.
Every time Eli enters a room, it’s like the oxygen disappears. I can’t breathe properly when he’s near. Can’t think straight. It’s wildly unprofessional. I’ve never had this reaction to a patient before. Not once. Not in my entire career.
Tom texted me a few days ago—again—asking me out. He does this every few months. Ever since I transferred to this practice last year.
I always said no. Until now.
I don’t even know why I said yes this time. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe I just wanted to sayyesto something.
Tom’s nice enough. Attractive in a clean, safe sort of way. Square jaw, tall, well-dressed, good teeth—he looks like he belongs on an NHS billboard about heart health.
Bit older than me. Bit too polished. Bit tooperfect.
But maybe that’s exactly what I need.
Someonenormal.
Someone who doesn’t look at me like they want to ruin me.
The rest of my day passes quickly, an endless stream of patients, all needing help with their problems.
By the time I get home it’s almost six, which gives me only an hour to get ready for the date.
My wardrobe is painfully dull. I have outfits for work, and outfits for lounging about the flat. I don’t even remember the last time I went on a date. I’m not even sure I remember the lasttime I left for something other than work or sustenance.
When was the last time I had fun?
I pull an old dress over my head, the fabric clinging in all the wrong places. It’s too tight. It still fits—barely—but that almost makes it worse.
In the mirror, I take myself in.
And instantly regret it.
The dress hugs my hips, accentuating every curve. My thighs press against the fabric like they’re trying to escape and my stomach rounds out, soft and unforgiving.Even with the spandex trying to suck me in.
My throat tightens. I want to cry.