Help me, won`t you?

I have always dreamed of helping people. It didn't matter who they were—children, adults, the elderly, or the disabled. I could never simply walk past someone in need. That burning desire to make a difference led me to medical school right after graduation. Back then, I hadn't chosen a specific field; I just had a goal, a mission that burned brightly within me. Now, years later, I am a neurotraumatologist at a military hospital. I work with soldiers and veterans, men and women who have sacrificed everything. My specialty allows me to return movement to those whose lives have become a constant struggle. Yes, the work is grueling, and the emotional toll is heavy, but the reward of seeing a patient take their first step is incomparable. It is my life’s work. However, this dedication comes at a steep price. At thirty-five, I am still single, and I have no children. It’s not a medical issue; physically, I’m perfectly fine. The problem is simply that there is no one. My past relationships followed a predictable, tragic pattern. Either I was cheated on because I spent all my time at the clinic, or I was dumped for the same reason. "Too much work, not enough attention," they would say. But I needed understanding and support, not complaints. I wasn't just "sitting in an office"—I was literally putting broken people back on their feet. All my friends are happily married with charming children. Sometimes, when we are all together, I feel like an outsider, a ghost at a feast. My best friend Lera, a talented psychotherapist, has just returned from her latest maternity leave. I’ll admit it—I’m jealous. I crave that feeling of coming home to the sound of little feet running toward me, screaming with joy that Mom is finally back. "Hi, honey! I hope you missed me!" Lera burst into my office without knocking, as usual. Whether I have a patient or not, Lera treats my office like her own living room. "You’re in your element as always. Gorgeous and inimitable," I replied with a tired smile. Honestly, without her, the work would be a dull routine. She always brought me the most challenging and interesting cases. "So, tell me, how have you been working without me? Found a man yet?" Lera took her favorite spot in the armchair by the window, crossing her legs stylishly. "Work is work. Nothing new. And a man? No, I haven't found one who values me as much as my career yet. But I can tell from that look in your eye—you’ve got something for me, don't you?" Lera’s expression shifted, becoming more serious. "You know me too well. Yes, I have someone. A couple of weeks ago, a cousin of our neighbor, Fedya, arrived. Fedya asked for help, but I can't handle this one alone. Lena, I need you and your magic hands." "What’s so special about this case?" I leaned back, intrigued but cautious. "I'm always willing to help, but I'm not a miracle worker. I need to see his history." "They’re coming to see me today, and then I’ll bring them to you. I haven't seen his full charts yet, but Fedya gave me the gist. There was a military exercise, an explosion. He was thrown back by the blast wave and hit a concrete wall. Vertebral displacement, nerve damage... the works. The bottom line is, he’s in a wheelchair, he’s thirty-eight, and he’s given up. He thinks being a disabled soldier is a disgrace. He’s lost the will to fight. We need to save him, Lena. He has no one but his brother." I saw the glint of tears in Lera's eyes. She truly cared. "Bring them in," I said. "We'll see what can be done. You know I'm always in." After she left, I tried to focus on my paperwork, but my mind kept drifting. My day was supposed to be quiet—no surgeries, no new intakes—but Lera was a hurricane that upended everything. We had been friends since the start of my career at this hospital. She was the only one who didn't view me as a rival for the attention of our Chief of Staff, Oleg Sergeyevich. He was a handsome man of forty-five, and most of the nurses—and some doctors—swooned over him. But he wasn't my type. He was short, thin, with graying hair. I’ve always preferred tall, large men—men with presence, whether it be muscle or just a solid frame. I was so buried in my thoughts that I barely heard the knock on the door. "Open," I called out. Lera entered, and behind her, a man in a wheelchair rolled into the room. My breath caught. If he were standing, he’d be nearly two meters tall. He was bald, with thick dark eyebrows and deep brown eyes that seemed to hold a world of suppressed anger. His nose had clearly been broken more than once, and his lips were unexpectedly full. He was, quite literally, the man of my dreams. In that split second, I hated my job—because dating patients was strictly forbidden. "Meet Elena Vladimirovna. I told you about her," Lera said, giving a sweet smile to the man standing behind the wheelchair. I hadn't even noticed the brother until now. "Good afternoon. I'm Elena Vladimirovna. What brings you to us?" I tried to keep my voice professional, but his gaze was intense, almost hostile. This was going to be difficult. "Hello, I'm Fedor, and this is my brother, Igor," the brother said. "I think we should leave you two alone to discuss the details. Igor, please... don't be rude, okay?" As Lera and Fedor stepped out, the air in the room seemed to grow heavy. I felt intimidated by this silent mountain of a man. "So, what fairy tales are you going to tell me, 'Doc'?" his voice was a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver down my spine. "Should I give you my medical records, or has your friend already told you everything?" "Maybe we should start by introducing ourselves properly," I said, trying to maintain my composure. "Tell me, what is bothering you most?" "We’ve already been introduced. And if you can't see it for yourself, I'll spell it out: I can't walk. That’s what’s 'bothering' me." "May I see your chart?" I stood up and walked toward him. I took the folder from his hands, our fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. I felt a spark of electricity that made my heart race. I walked back to my desk and leaned against it, flipping through the pages. It was shocking. For two years, no one had really tried to treat him. Just basic tests, X-rays, MRIs—but no aggressive rehabilitation. Why? As I read, I could feel his eyes on me. It wasn't a casual look; he was scanning my body with a burning intensity. If I had met this man in a bar instead of a clinic, I would have been the one chasing him. "Well, Doc? Anything interesting, or can I go home?" He leaned his elbow on the armrest, resting his chin on his hand, watching me. "I need to run my own tests and perform some procedures before I can tell you what I can do for you," I said firmly. "And when do we start? I want to get out of here." "Are you in such a hurry to get rid of me? Am I that unpleasant?" "Oh, far from it," he countered, his eyes dark. "I just hate being here. I don't see the point in any of this." He had clearly given up the moment he heard his diagnosis. "Fine. Let's do this: we will finish the initial procedures today, and then you'll be free to go." He turned his chair toward the door. I hurried to open it for him, but someone pushed it open from the other side. The door hit me, and I lost my balance, stumbling backward. I braced myself for a humiliating fall, but instead, I was caught by powerful arms. I landed squarely on Igor’s lap. My face was buried in the crook of his neck. I could feel his warm breath against my skin, sending a wave of goosebumps across my body. His scent was masculine, intoxicating. "Oh, Lena! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to!" Lera stood in the doorway, looking shocked. Fedor was right behind her, his jaw dropping. I stayed there for a second longer than necessary, feeling his large hands resting on my hips. "Forgive me, Igor... I didn't mean to fall on you," I whispered, reluctantly standing up. I could have stayed in his arms forever. "It's alright, Lera. We were just going to the labs. After that, Fedor, you can take him home. My apologies again, Igor." I turned to look at him one last time before Lera led them away. His expression had changed. The anger was gone, replaced by something soft—almost a look of tenderness. He sat there, unmoving, staring at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.