My Doctor’s My Old Crush, I Lied

Chapter 2

The old lady had no idea the other two people in the room had history from seven years ago.

She looked me over, saw my red face and how I’d shrunk into myself, and kindly patted my hand.

“Don’t be shy, dear. At your age, a strong s*x drive is completely normal.”

I nodded stiffly, my peripheral vision locked on Elliott in the corner.

He stood ramrod straight, jaw tight. The pen he’d picked up was clenched so hard in his fist that his knuckles were white.

He wasn’t looking at the form.

But he had definitely heard those words.

The old lady suddenly remembered the resident behind her and got excited. She turned to quiz him.

“Elliott, while you’re here, tell me: what are the common clinical causes of pain during intercourse?”

Kill me.

I covered my face. This was unbearable.

Someone please drag me out of this room. I’d do anything.

Elliott’s gaze went over the old lady’s white hair and landed on me. It didn’t move an inch.

After a long pause, he spoke. His voice was ice-cold, each word hitting like a hammer:

“Overly aggressive activity.”

“Too frequent.”

“Lack of proper lubrication.”

“Mechanical trauma.”

Every phrase slapped me across the face.

My hands and feet went cold while blood rushed to my head.

Each word felt like another stomp on what little dignity I had left.

Seven years ago, when I looked at him, it was pure admiration—love I couldn’t hide no matter how hard I tried.

Back then, I remembered exactly how many sugars he took in his coffee. I’d replay the bands he casually mentioned for an entire semester.

Seven years later, looking at him, I only had one thought: find a hole and crawl in, never come out.

A girl who once openly said she liked him was now sitting in his clinic because of “too rough sex.”

Was there anything more humiliating?

The old lady nodded approvingly, completely missing her student’s tension.

“Very good, clear and organized. Now, as a doctor, what other details should you ask the patient?”

Elliott thought for a moment.

His eyes churned with emotions I couldn’t read—growing darker, deeper.

Then his voice cracked, a faint tremble slipping through:

“Quinn… who the hell have you been sleeping with?”

The room went dead silent.

The smile froze on the old lady’s face.

She whipped off her glasses, turned to her student, and her tone sharpened.

“Elliott Shaw, what is wrong with you?”

“How many times have I told you? Do not address patients by name during consultation, and do not pry into their private lives!”

“Consultations should be warm and respectful. What you just did sounds like an interrogation!”

“Look at the poor girl—she was already nervous, and now you’ve scared her even more.”

I thought Elliott would argue or explain.

He didn’t.

He just stood there and took the scolding, throat bobbing as he swallowed everything back down.

His lips pressed tight. He looked down.

The poor pen snapped in his hand with a crack.

The broken end must have been sharp, but he gripped it even tighter, like he couldn’t feel it.