on the edge
711 Words
The irritation started as a slight itch. By the next morning, it burned with every step I took. I tried to ignore it, to pretend it was nothing, but my body had other plans.
Mom noticed.
“You’ve been shifting all morning,” she said as I sat down for breakfast. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitated. “It’s… kind of private.”
She gave me a once-over, eyes narrowing. “You need to see a doctor.”
“I’m fine—”
“No,” she cut in. “Xavier’s taking you to his hospital. No arguments.”
And just like that, my stomach knotted.
By noon, we were in his car. The air between us was thick and silent. I could feel his eyes flicker toward me at red lights, his jaw clenched tighter with every mile.
I sat stiffly, thighs pressed together, trying to keep my breathing steady. Every bump in the road sent a reminder between my legs. I knew what kind of infection it was. I wasn’t clueless.
I just hadn’t expected him to be the one checking it.
At the hospital, he checked in with the receptionist, then turned to me with a look I couldn’t read.
“All the female doctors are out today,” he said. “It’ll have to be me.”
My throat dried. “What?”
“You need help,” he said, tone clipped. “And you’ll get it. Professionally.”
He led me to an examination room—cold, sterile, too white. I climbed onto the table, heart thudding so hard it echoed in my ears. He washed his hands slowly, slipped on gloves, and adjusted the overhead light.
“I’m going to take a look,” he said, not meeting my gaze. “You might feel a bit of pressure.”
I nodded, lying back. The gown rose over my thighs, and I swallowed hard as I let my legs part—just enough.
He knelt between them, flashlight in hand, his face unreadable. His breath hitched, just once, before he masked it.
I watched the muscles in his jaw tighten. His eyes stayed trained on the task, but I saw his hands hesitate.
“This is strictly medical,” he murmured, almost like he was reminding himself.
I was burning—and not just from the infection.
His fingers hovered, close but not touching. He looked like he was holding himself back with every ounce of willpower.
“This… is inflammation,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “You’ll need antibiotics. Possibly an antifungal.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t speak.
Then—his eyes flicked up and met mine.
We froze.
My breath caught. His hands stilled inches from my skin.
His eyes dropped again—for just a second.
“I shouldn't have been the one to do this,” he whispered, low and rough. “This—this is crossing a line.”
I licked my lips. “But you’re the only one I want to cross it with.”
His entire body tensed.
“Don’t,” he said sharply, pulling off the gloves. “Don’t say that.”
“But it’s the truth.”
He backed away, dragging a hand through his hair.
“You don’t understand what you’re playing with,” he muttered. “This thing between us—it’s not safe.”
“And yet, you looked.”
He whipped around to face me. “Of course I looked. You think I don’t feel it too? You think I haven’t had to fight myself every single night since you moved in?”
Silence.
Then softer—“You’re not just anyone to me, and that’s the problem.”
He handed me a small prescription note, eyes locked on mine. The moment stretched and twisted between us, humming with everything we wanted and couldn’t have.
“You’ll start the meds today,” he said. “And stay away from swimming pools, tight clothes, anything that might aggravate it.”
“And what about you?” I whispered.
He looked at me one last time, his voice like smoke.
“I’m already aggravated enough.”
He turned and walked out—leaving me on the table, burning from the inside out
- Writer
