Prescription For Love

Chapter 5 - Every Damn Second

Elena’s POV

“Be honest,” I said as Adrian leaned closer with a new dropper. “Is this the one that feels like acid?”

He smirked. “No. That’s the one I gave you yesterday. This one just burns.”

“Comforting.” I tilted my head back anyway, trying not to flinch when the drops hit.

The sting was immediate, but so was the warmth of his hand steadying my chin. That part? I didn’t mind.

“You’re getting good at this,” he said, dabbing gently with a tissue.

“I’ve had practice. Or maybe I’ve just gone numb.”

“You haven’t.” His voice dropped a little. “You’re tougher than most people I’ve treated.”

I glanced up, caught the edge of something in his eyes before he pulled back.

“How many people have you treated?” I asked.

He hesitated, then began cleaning up the tray. “Thousands. Over the years.”

“But not recently,” I guessed.

“No. Not like this.” He paused. “I stopped taking these kinds of cases. Too personal. Too much risk.”

“And yet here I am.”

“Yet here you are.”

There was a weight to those words. Something unspoken. I knew that look, I'd written it a dozen times into fictional men who were haunted by past mistakes. Except Adrian Cole wasn’t fiction. He was flesh and blood and standing close enough to steal my breath.

“Tell me something,” I said, changing the subject before I lost nerve. “What’s it like being a genius billionaire trauma surgeon who runs private clinics in multiple countries and still somehow finds time to... not smile?”

He laughed. Actually laughed. “It’s exhausting. And you forgot emotionally repressed.”

“Oh, right. That too.” I grinned. “Bet you make a mean omelet, though.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want to find out?”

I blinked. “Wait. Are you inviting me to breakfast?”

“Hypothetically.”

“What’s hypothetical about it?”

He looked at me like he was trying to decide whether to say what was really on his mind. Then: “Because if we cross that line, Elena, there’s no going back. You know that, right?”

My stomach fluttered. “Do you think I don’t?”

“Just making sure.”

I lowered my voice. “I don’t want to go back.”

We stared at each other for a long second. Then he stepped away, sharp and sudden, as if he’d come too close to the edge.

“Procedure tomorrow is a long one,” he said, all business again. “We’ll start at six sharp. Eat something light before you come in.”

I swallowed the ache of disappointment. “Got it. No flirting. Just eye surgery and trauma. My favorite.”

He hesitated at the door. “Elena?”

“Yeah?”

He didn’t turn around. “If this were any other circumstance... I’d have kissed you already.”

And then he was gone.

My hands were trembling when I picked up my cane.

I was still thinking about what Adrian said the next morning. "If this were any other circumstance, I’d have kissed you already."

It looped in my head like a melody I couldn’t turn off. I should’ve felt conflicted. He was my doctor. We barely knew each other. And yet, somehow, he already knew me better than Nathan ever did.

At 5:55 a.m., I stepped into the clinic again. The receptionist nodded, already expecting me. I was ushered to a private treatment room where Adrian stood reviewing a chart, mask hanging loosely around his neck.

"You’re early," he said without looking up.

"Habit. You said this was the big day."

He finally met my eyes. "We’ll do the corneal crosslinking today, plus the second round of nerve therapy. This will be... difficult."

I slipped off my coat. "Define difficult."

"You’ll hate me for most of it."

"Already do."

His lip quirked. "Good. That’ll help."

Maria came in to prep me. She gave me a soft cap, numbing drops, and placed sensors around my temples. Adrian watched as I climbed into the recliner. I hated how aware I was of his presence. Every shift of air when he moved, every time his voice dipped.

"You okay?" he asked, voice gentler now.

"As okay as someone about to get their eyeballs microwaved can be."

He chuckled. "No microwaves. Just light, riboflavin, and science."

I lay back. The lights dimmed. The procedure began.

He narrated as he worked. I focused on his voice, tried to drown out the burning sensation, the ache, the intense pressure.

"Deep breaths. You’re doing great."

"Liar," I hissed.

He didn’t flinch. "You can scream if you need to."

"Not giving you the satisfaction."

Hours passed. Or minutes. I couldn't tell. Time blurred into a haze of discomfort. At one point, I felt his hand brush mine again. A grounding touch.

"Almost done," he murmured.

When it was finally over, I was too spent to sit up. Adrian bent to adjust the bandages himself, his fingers careful and precise.

"You’ll rest here for a bit. Maria will stay with you."

I opened one eye a crack. "And you? Running off to rescue someone else?"

He hesitated. "No. I’m staying close."

Later that afternoon, I woke in a private recovery suite. The pain was dull now, tolerable. But something else lingered, the heat of that unspoken moment from earlier.

I found him standing by the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looked out of place in the quiet room, like a storm barely contained.

"So... do I look like Frankenstein yet?" I croaked.

He turned, smiled faintly. "Not quite. More like... a very tired novelist."

I shifted to sit up. He moved quickly, adjusting the bed.

"Thanks."

He pulled up a chair. Silence hung between us for a beat.

"I meant what I said," he murmured.

My heart jumped. "Which part?"

"If things were different... if I wasn’t your doctor... I would’ve kissed you."

I looked away. "Well, you are. So."

"But you won’t always be my patient."

That stopped me.

He leaned forward. "I’ve spent most of my life behind barriers. Medicine. Money. Walls of my own making. But with you, you make me want to tear them down."

My throat tightened. "You barely know me."

"I know you’re brave. And sarcastic. And smarter than most people I meet in a year. I know you didn’t come here to be saved. You came here to fight. And I’ve never respected someone more for it."

I swallowed hard. "You know what scares me more than losing my vision?"

He shook his head.

"Trusting someone again."

His eyes softened. "Then don’t trust me yet. Just let me earn it. One day at a time."

I felt something break open in me. A release. A breath I hadn’t taken in months.

"Adrian."

He took my hand. It was the smallest thing. But it meant everything.

Over the next few days, I improved steadily. The swelling receded. My vision, though far from perfect, sharpened in small but meaningful ways.

"I can see color again," I told him one morning. "The nurse’s scrubs are pink, right?"

He grinned. "Hot pink. Impressive."

"I knew I wasn’t hallucinating."

Each day he checked my progress, carefully professional, but I caught the looks. The small moments when he lingered too long, when his fingers brushed mine a second more than necessary.

And then came my final day at the clinic.

"So this is it," I said, standing by the window in the same recovery suite.

He nodded. "You’ll continue outpatient therapy. But you’re stable now."

I turned to face him. "And us?"

He stepped closer. "That depends. Do you want there to be an us?"

"I want a beginning. A real one. Not one that starts in a treatment room."

His eyes locked on mine. "Then let’s find out what this looks like outside of surgeries and eye drops."

I took a breath. Stepped forward. Closed the gap between us.

"No more hypotheticals?"

He smiled. "None."

This time, when his lips met mine, there were no lines to cross. No rules to break. Just two people, learning to see each other clearly for the first time. And it was the most real thing I'd felt in years.