Chapter 7
730 Words
Olga POV
Of course.
Of course this is how the day ends.
I’m finishing my notes, already half out of my white coat, when the clock on the wall clicks over to the hour the doctor always leaves. He’s grumbling as usual, complaining about his back, his hands, and “men who think stitches are optional.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, pulling on his coat. “Unless someone decides to bleed creatively again.”
“Goodnight, doctor,” I reply, smiling despite myself.
The door closes behind him.
The clinic goes quiet.
I exhale, stretching my neck, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. Long day. Classes in the morning, assisting all afternoon. My feet ache, but it’s the good kind—the kind that means I did something useful.
I’m reaching for my bag when the door opens again.
I don’t need to look up to know who it is.
The air changes.
I close my eyes briefly.
Why now?
I lift my head.
Ivan stands in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, jacket off, dark shirt clinging slightly where it pulls across his ribs. His expression is unreadable, but his posture is just a fraction stiffer than before.
“You’re late,” I say before I can stop myself.
One eyebrow lifts. “I came when I was told.”
“The doctor left an hour ago,” I reply, glancing pointedly at the empty desk. “You couldn’t have come earlier?”
He shrugs slightly. “Wasn’t ordered to.”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Of course.”
He watches me carefully, like he’s gauging whether I’ll send him away. Most people would. Most people do.
I don’t.
“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the examination table. “Before you tell me you’re fine.”
He sits without argument.
That shouldn’t irritate me.
It does anyway.
I grab gloves and step closer, my movements efficient, professional. I keep my eyes on the bandage as I undo it carefully.
“You’ve been moving too much,” I say flatly.
“I had time off.”
I snort softly. “That’s not what I meant.”
I peel back the dressing and examine the wound. It’s healing—but slower than it should. Bruising darker. Swelling stubborn.
“You’re lucky,” I say. “Another day like this and you’d be in real trouble.”
He doesn’t respond.
I glance up at him. “Does that concern you at all?”
“No.”
“Figures.”
I clean the area, reapply fresh bandages, my fingers firm but gentle. I’m aware of him watching me—not in a way that feels invasive, but… attentive.
“You should rest,” I say. “Actually rest.”
“I don’t know how.”
I pause.
That wasn’t defiance.
That was honesty.
I meet his eyes. “You learn. Or your body forces you to.”
A beat passes.
“Are you afraid of hurting me?” he asks suddenly.
The question catches me off guard.
“No,” I answer immediately. “I’m afraid you won’t stop hurting yourself.”
Something flickers across his face—too quick to name.
I finish securing the bandage and step back. “You’re done.”
He stands slowly, testing his side.
“Thank you,” he says.
It’s quiet. Genuine.
I nod once. “Try not to make my work harder.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “No promises.”
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door.
“You didn’t have to stay,” he says. “You could’ve sent me away.”
“I could have,” I agree. “But I didn’t.”
He nods once, like he understands something I haven’t said out loud.
The door closes behind him.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and sink into the chair.
Why now?
Why not earlier, when the doctor was here—when there would’ve been distance, supervision, structure?
I shake my head, gathering my things.
It doesn’t matter.
It’s just bad timing.
That’s all.
Still, as I turn off the lights and lock the clinic, one thought follows me down the hallway—
Some people don’t come late by accident.
And something tells me Ivan Volkov is never late unless he chooses to be.
- Writer
