Chapter 2 A Pulse You Can't Ignore

It had been a week since the surgery, but Lily couldn't shake him from her mind.

Dr. Adrian West.

She'd attempted-attempted hard-to rid herself of the strange magnetic pull he'd left in her bones, a lingering effect of the anesthesia he'd administered to her. But the moment she awakened in the recovery room and his face was there, looking at her with that unfathomable intensity, something within her shifted.

Something irreversible.

Now she was back in the hospital again for her routine post-op visit. Nothing major-just a regular appointment to ensure the surgical site was healing nicely. She'd already been to see the gynecologist who'd performed the procedure. The last item on her agenda was a follow-up from anesthesia services.

That wasn't the norm, the nurse had said. But Dr. West liked to personally follow up on some patients.

Some patients. Those words had echoed in her mind for hours.

Lily sat on the exam table in a private consult room, swinging her feet listlessly, trying not to squirm. The paper covering the table crunched beneath her thighs. Her sundress was casual, loose and soft against her skin, but her palms were damp, her heartbeat betraying her calm exterior.

The door opened, and the room went quiet.

He entered with the same subdued authority as ever-Adrian West, in a charcoal button-down shirt with sleeves pushed to his forearms, a white coat draped over his lean shoulders. He looked less doctor-like today and more like something off the cover of one of those steamy romance novels she read in secret. Only this wasn't fantasy. He was real. And standing three feet before her.

"Mister Hart," he said, voice as sleek as ever.

"Lily," she corrected, and it escaped before she could help herself.

He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes flicking to hers with the faintest brush of surprise. A heartbeat hung between them.

"Lily," he repeated, more gently this time. "I do hope you're recuperating well?"

"Yes," she said, fiddling with the hem of her dress. "Minimal pain. Some soreness and occasional cramping, but otherwise. I feel normal."

He nodded. "Good to hear. Fever? Dizziness? Excessive bleeding?"

"No."

"Appetite?"

"Back to normal."

"Any unusual dreams?" he added, voice level.

Lily blinked.

Was that... on purpose?

She bit her lip and shrugged. "A few. Nothing bad."

A faint twitch of his lips, there and gone. "Good."

He came in and opened up her chart, scanning it briefly. "Your vitals were good in triage. Blood pressure's stable. Let me take a look at the surgical area for swelling or any signs of infection."

She nodded, thankful that she was wearing a dress.

Adrian set the chart aside and pulled on a pair of gloves. His movements were casual, deliberate. Still, Lily couldn't help but notice how his sleeves crept up his forearms, revealing strong wrists and veins beneath the skin. She wasn't supposed to notice such things-not with a doctor. Not with him.

But her body noticed anyway.

"Lie back," he said, tapping the table.

She reclined slowly, heat blooming across her cheeks.

Adrian stood beside her, his hands cool and professional as he lifted the fabric of her dress and carefully examined the area near her lower abdomen. His touch was clinical, methodical-but even through the latex, the heat of his skin seemed to burn through her.

"You're healing beautifully," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

She risked a glance at his face-just as he looked up.

Their eyes locked, and her breath caught in her chest.

It was a moment, hardly long enough for her to have forgotten where she was. Hardly long enough to imagine that his hands were not gloved. That the ferocity with which he looked at her now-like she was some breakable, perilous thing-meant something more.

But then he stepped back, peeling off the gloves and disposing of them in the bin.

"Everything looks good," he said. "You're recovering well. I'll note that in your file."

She sat up slowly, adjusting her dress. Her fingers trembled slightly.

"Thank you," she murmured, trying to sound composed.

Adrian didn't respond at first. He simply watched her, the silence stretching between them like a drawn wire.

Then: "I remember you said I was in your dream."

She tensed.

She looked up. "I... yeah."

"Was I wearing scrubs?" he asked, voice low and unreadable.

Lily stared. "No."

A pause. A muscle ticced in his jaw.

"I don't usually stop by to see patients after surgery," he said. "But I needed to see you for myself."

"Why?" she whispered.

His eyes met hers-and this time there was no restraint, no cold. Just warmth. Something more.

Because I haven't been able to get you out of my mind," he stated.

Her breathing caught.

"I don't know why," he continued, his voice lower now. "But you... stayed with me. And that doesn't happen."

Lily swallowed. "Maybe it's the anesthesia talking."

He laughed once-low and dark, the sound grating something inside her. "Maybe."

Neither one of them moved.

Tension between them thickened like smoke-coiling, stretching, pulling them nearer in the silence. Her heart thudded against her ribs. He was still so calm. But his eyes betrayed him.

There was fire behind the storm.

Then he stepped closer.

Not close. Just a foot closer. Just close enough to have her tilt her chin up to meet his gaze.

"I shouldn't be thinking about you," he said. "It's... unethical. Inappropriate."

"I'm not your patient anymore," she whispered.

That made him pause.

"Still," he said, though his voice wavered now. "I'm supposed to be detached."

"Are you?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

The silence between them was electric.

"I could walk out right now," she said, standing slowly, the edge of her sundress brushing her thighs.

"You should," he said, even though he didn't move.

But she didn't.

And neither did he.

She stepped closer. "I don't scare easy."

He smiled weakly, in pain. "You should."

Her voice dropped. "Why?"

"Because I don't do soft," he said, his eyes locked on hers. "I don't do safe. I've buried too much to be anything but a warning sign."

She reached out, her fingers brushing his.

It was barely a touch. But it was like a spark touched a live wire.

"I think," she whispered, "I like warning signs."

His hand curled around hers, finally giving in to the gravity between them.

But just as quickly, he released her, stepping back like he'd touched fire.

"This is a mistake," he said roughly. "I'm sorry."

He turned and walked to the door, fingers flexing like they ached.

She watched him go, breathless and aching and alive in a way she hadn't felt in years.

It was a mistake. A dangerous one.

Yet God, she wanted to do it again.