I shouldn’t have been nervous.
It was just a routine checkup. Nothing more.
Still, my hands were clammy as I sat on the exam table in the thin paper gown, the air-conditioning raising goosebumps along my bare thighs. The clinic was quiet for a weekday afternoon. Soft classical music drifted from the speakers, and the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with something warmer—cedar, maybe, or expensive cologne.
The door opened.
Dr. Elias Voss stepped in, and the room suddenly felt smaller.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair threaded with a few strands of silver at the temples. He looked like he’d walked out of one of those medical dramas where the lead surgeon is impossibly good-looking and somehow still has time to save lives between intense eye contact. His white coat was open over a charc
