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"I have a laceration," I say, my voice sounding more like a growl than I intended. "I cut myself with a kitchen knife, and it won't stop bleeding."

She looks up then, her eyes widening as she recognizes the face from the billboards and the sports highlights. But before she can speak, a familiar voice cuts through the noise of the waiting room.

"I'll take him to bay four," Harper says, appearing from the hallway. She isn't in the emerald dress anymore. She’s in blue scrubs, her hair pulled into a practical ponytail, a stethoscope draped around her neck. God. She’s goddamn stunning. She looks at me, and there’s no warmth in her expression. There’s only a professional, guarded edge that reminds me exactly whose sister she is.

At least I’m losing less blood right now since all the blood flow has redirected straight to my cock. I follow her, the 'Ice Wall' finally coming face to face with the one person who seems to spread heat through all the iciness. Fuck. I haven’t felt this alive in… forever.

CHAPTER FOUR

HARPER

Of all days. Today isn’t the day to deal with this. My schedule is all messed up from attending the gala and then working the next night. And now I have to deal with the one person in the world I need to avoid. Jaxson Thorne. The man whose face is currently running through my mind like a freaking highlight reel and whose name is a curse word to my brother. I point to triage four. “Have a seat on the bed.” His presence eats up the small space of the treatment bay until it feels like I’m drowning in him.

His hand is wrapped in a makeshift bandage of kitchen towels, now sodden with a deep, dark crimson. He follows my instructions. I stare into his eyes, and for a second, the sterile fluorescence of the ER catches the gold in his eyes. He doesn't look like a statue of focused granite right now. He looks like a man who tried to fight a kitchen knife and lost.

"Hello again," he says. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates in the air between us, landing somewhere in the pit of my stomach. “I’d say us meeting again is fate if my hand wasn’t throbbing like a motherfucker.”

"You should be more careful playing with sharp objects, Mr. Thorne," I reply, my voice smooth and clinical. I don't let the flutter in my chest reach my hands as I set the tray down on the rolling cart. "Let's see the damage."

I reach for his hand, and the moment my fingers brush his skin, a static charge jumps between us. He breathes out, and his eyes never leave mine. His jaw tightens, and his breath hitches when I carefully peel back the blood-soaked towel to reveal a jagged laceration running across the meat of his palm. It’s deep, the edges clean but angry, pulsing with a steady rhythm that tells me we’re going to be here a while.

"That’s a deep cut," I breathe, reaching for the saline to flush the wound. “Are you left-handed?”

“No,” he answers, completely confusing me.

I blink several times, trying to picture how this cut could’ve happened. “Then how did you cut your right palm?”

“I dropped the knife and tried to catch it.” The look on his face is pure embarrassment. “Dumbass move, I know.”

“Must’ve been a very sharp knife.” I clean the wound with the saline flush. Jaxson winces as the cool liquid hits the raw tissue, but his gaze remains fixed on my face.

"Too sharp. Evidently, I need to start with the beginner cooking implements. Cooking is supposed to be therapeutic. Apparently, the universe had a different plan for my evening."

"So, it would seem," I say, keeping my focus on the wound. I can feel him watching me, the weight of his attention like a physical heat. I try to stay in my professional bubble, cataloging the depth of the cut, the tension of the skin, the way his tendons move beneath the surface. He has hands that look like they belong to a sculptor—broad-palmed, powerful, but with a surprising grace in the length of his fingers. I catch myself wondering what they’d feel like if they weren't covered in blood and saline, and I immediately shut the thought down. Denial is a very useful tool in the ER.

I take out my hospital phone and send the attending a quick text, then I start prepping the suture tray. "The doctor will be right in to stitch you up, Mr. Thorne."

He doesn't even blink as he stares back at me. "Call me Jaxson. 'Mr. Thorne' makes me feel like I’m about to be audited by the IRS."

"I prefer to keep things professional with my patients." I snap on a fresh pair of gloves and set up the tray like it’s my only mission in life, just so I have something to look at that isn’t Jaxson’s hands or his absurdly square jawline. The air in the little ER bay is thick enough to suffocate a horse.

I let out the breath I’ve been holding when the curtain opens, and Dr. Patel breezes in looking exactly like a guy who could run an entire ER, teach a seminar, and host a dinner party without breaking a sweat. Mid-fifties. Olive skin and graying hair that actually makes him look more distinguished than old. Round glasses, and he wears them like a badge of honor. The man exudes confidence, but not the annoying kind. More like “I’ve seen some shit and nothing phases me” dad energy.

The air shifts the second he enters the bay. I swear, the panic and fear of making bad decisions floating around in here just evaporates. He takes in Jaxson’s hand in about two seconds flat, his voice warm and all business. “Deep laceration from fighting with a kitchen knife?” He’s already pulling on gloves. “Let’s take a look. Good work, Harper.”

“Thank you.” I actually stand a little straighter. Why does that tiny bit of praise make me feel like I just won a spelling bee?

He’s all business as usual, not five seconds of small talk. “Alright,” he says, sliding on his own gloves. “Why didn’t you have the team doctor take care of this?”

Jaxson barely reacts as Dr. Patel examines his wound. “I didn’t want to bug him at home.” I don’t think the man even knows how to flinch.

“It doesn’t look as deep as I originally thought. I should be able to stitch it up without involving plastics or ortho.” The doc irrigates the wound again, eyeballs the damage, and gets right to work.

“Sounds great,” Jaxson mutters.

“This is going to sting,” Dr. Patel tells him as he grabs the syringe I laid out. Jaxson doesn’t even blink when the doctor injects Lidocaine into the wound. He just watches the whole thing like it’s a boring YouTube video. Patel works fast and neat. “Good job holding still,” he tells Jaxson, but there’s no real praise in it. We’re just another patch job to him. “You’ll need to keep this clean, and you’ll need a couple of follow-up appointments to make sure it’s healing properly.” Dr. Patel waits while the anesthetic takes effect. “Do you wear your glove on your right hand?”

“Yeah.” Jaxson nods his head.