Rhea wasn't new to hospital visits.
She'd grown familiar with the smell of antiseptic and the quiet hum of waiting rooms. But this… this was new.
Micah Dervaux.
The doctor with sleeves always slightly rolled up, a voice that never quite settled into cold professionalism, and a habit of asking questions that hovered somewhere between harmless and… personal.
"You said you've been skipping meals?" he asked, glancing at her chart.
Rhea gave a half-shrug. "Life's expensive. And I'm a career woman. Starving artist budget, you know?"
Micah raised a brow. "You work in product design. I didn't know that classified you as starving."
She shot him a look. "Ever tried paying Lagos rent with product mockups?"
He smirked, eyes dropping to her wrist as he checked her pulse.
"Touché."
There it was again — the lingering glance. Just a second longer than needed.
It wasn't flirtation. Not exactly.
Just… a softness that most doctors didn't have.
And maybe — maybe — Rhea was reading too much into it.
"Don't skip meals," he said after a beat, voice gentler. "Your body's not a machine."
"Oh, mine is. Rusty parts and all."
He shook his head with a quiet chuckle.
And just like that, the moment dissolved.
---
Her life outside the clinic didn't pause for odd glances and soft warnings.
Deadlines pressed in. Bills whispered threats.
And her health? Still a careful balancing act of medication, overwork, and sheer stubbornness.
But in between all of it…
There were those visits.
Those casual checkups that weren't so casual anymore.
And a doctor who wasn't quite crossing lines… but wasn't stepping away either.