For several days after the locked-door moment, Dr. Kieran Voss became my shadow whenever his schedule allowed.
Dr. Kieran—Kieran, as I started thinking of him in the quiet spaces of my mind—had become my shadow whenever his shifts allowed.
He'd slip in during quiet hours, always with some medical excuse at first: checking my oxygen levels, but his fingertips would linger on my cheek as he adjusted the cannula, tracing the line of my jaw just a second too long.
Holding my wrist to "monitor my pulse," but he'd keep it for minutes, thumb stroking slow circles over the thin skin there, his dark eyes watching my face like he was memorizing every flicker.
Massaging my calves when cramps hit from all the immobility—strong hands kneading gently, working up to my knees, his touch turning from clinical to something warmer, more personal, until I'd forget the pain and just feel the heat of him.
It made me feel seen. Wanted. In a way no one else ever had.
But today… today the whole day passed without him.
I waited. Every creak of the door made my heart leap—nurse, food tray, cleaning staff. Not him.
The morning dragged into afternoon, the light shifting across the walls. I felt the hurt building, a sharp, stupid ache on top of the tumor's constant throb.
Where was he? I kept asking Mrs. Kattie—poor Mrs. Kattie, who buzzed in and out with her quick steps and kind smiles. "He's busy," she said every time, voice gentle but firm. "Emergencies, sweetheart. He'll come when he can."
Busy. The word stabbed. Busy with other patients. Healthier ones. Living ones.
The world was taking him away from me—the only man who'd ever made me feel this good, this alive in my dying body.
My chest tightened, breaths coming shallower.
The monitor beeped a warning once or twice.
My body was degrading faster today—dizzy spells stronger, limbs heavier, the ache in my lungs sharper.
I felt it spreading, the tumor whispering louder, like it knew I was breaking.
Another doctor came in the late afternoon—a brisk older man with a clipboard and no warmth.
He checked the charts, adjusted my drip, muttered about fluid levels.
No lingering touches. No soft words. I stared at the ceiling, tears slipping silent down my temples.
Utterly broken. Kieran hadn't come. He wasn't coming. The faint hope I'd clung to all day shattered, leaving me emptier than before.
That night, the pain spiked like a knife twisting in my chest.
Morphine flowed through the IV, but it wasn't enough.
The tumor pressed harder, breaths ragged, every inhale fire.
Nurses fluttered in—Mrs. Kattie first, then others—adjusting doses, propping pillows. I whimpered, curled into myself, the world narrowing to hurt.
_
_
_
Then, midnight—footsteps. The door opened.
Kieran.
His face was drawn, tired—shadows under his eyes deeper than usual.
He took one look at me and the room cleared. "I've got her," he said to the other doctor lingering nearby. "Go home."
The man nodded, left without argument.
Relief washed through the pain. He was here.
He moved fast—checked the monitors, upped the morphine just a touch more, his hands steady on my arm. The edge dulled slowly. I breathed easier, the fire banking to embers.
I saw it then—the pain in his eyes. Raw. Mirroring mine.
He treated me—adjusted the cannula, smoothed my sweaty hair back, wiped my forehead with a cool cloth.
All nurses gone now. Just us.
When the worst passed, he lowered the rail and sat on the bed.
Pulled me carefully against his chest—supine, no strain, just easing me into him so my head rested over his heart. Strong. Steady. Thud-thud-thud, alive and sure.
The contrast hit me like a wave. My weak, failing heart stuttering beside his perfect one. I started crying—deep, wrenching sobs that shook us both.
"Don't cry , baby," he whispered, arms wrapping tighter. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't come to you today. I was with a dying patient. All day. Complications. A seventeen-year-old boy… we lost him an hour ago. I couldn't leave his mother until—"
I shook my head, tears spilling faster. "You're here now."
"Yes baby, I'm here. With you. "
He said gently.
I cried harder, face buried in his shirt, inhaling his scent—clean, warm, him.
He lifted my face gently—fingers under my chin, trembling just a little. Hesitated—eyes searching mine, weighing, wanting. Then he gave in.
Slow. Careful. Lips brushing mine at first, feather-light. Then deeper—still gentle, mouths moving together. No tongue yet, thinking too much might make me too excited.
I melted into it, tears salting the kiss.
He pulled back first, forehead to mine.
He opened his shirt—buttons slipping free one by one, revealing that pale, sculpted chest, lean muscle, the elegant curve of pectorals, the clean lines of abs. My breath caught.
He took both my hands—trembling like mine—and guided them to his chest.
"Touch me," he whispered. "As much as you want."
My palms flattened against his warm skin —fingers tracing ridges, feeling him breathe under my touch.
I felt his heartbeat under my fingers—strong, fast. I traced the ridges of his abs, up over his pecs, feeling him shiver when my thumbs brushed his nipples. He exhaled roughly but didn't stop me.
"Do you feel good?" he asked, voice hoarse.
I nodded frantically.
He stroked my arms, shoulders, collarbones—above the hospital gown, light and reverent.
I looked up at him, eyes wet. "Will you… leave me?"
His hand cupped my cheek. "Never," he said, low and fierce. "I'm not going home tonight. I'm staying right here."
His words made me feel cared, loved, protected.
He turned me over carefully—my back to his chest, head pillowed on his sternum. Moments passed. Quiet. My breathing evened. The pain faded more.
One arm wrapped around my waist—gentle, protective.
The other hand hovered near my breast—barely brushing the gown.
" Can I touch your breast , baby ?" he asked softly.
"Yes," I whispered, heart slamming.
God. For the first time, a man's hand cupped my sensitive breast—over the thin fabric, warm and firm. Intense jolts shot through my fragile body—electric, alive. I gasped.
He noticed the monitor spike. Removed his hand gently.
I looked up at him, disappointed.
"You were getting too excited," he said, voice low.
I felt embarrassed, sad—face heating. He saw it, eyes softening.
Then he slowly slidded his hand under the gown.
Bare skin to bare skin. His palm on my breast, fingers grazing my nipple. Intense. Overwhelming. Heat pooled low in my belly.
He rubbed—slow at first, then pressing harder. Massaging. Making me crazy. I arched slightly, moaning soft and desperate.
I grabbed his hand under the gown—hard—pressing it closer. "More," I whispered, shameless, desperate for a man's touch for the first time. Like a woman starved.
He did. Massaged harder—kneading, rolling my nipple between fingers. I leaked already—wet between my legs—like a desperate, uncontrolled teenage girl.
He pinched—sharp, sudden. I gasped loud.
He liked it. Liked each sound I made for him.
He rubbed like obsessed—fingers relentless, twisting, pulling. I moaned for him—breathless, needy. Heard his ragged breathing behind me—hot against my ear.
"Don't get too excited," he warned, voice husky.
The bed bounced faintly, creaking with our subtle shifts.
He rubbed until my breasts were reddish, sensitive, aching in the best way.
I kept moaning—louder, lost.
Then—grabbing my breasts firmly—he pressed my back flush to his chest. Whispered in my ear: "Calm down. You're getting too excited." Slowly removed his hands.
"Sorry," I said shyly, face burning.
"You need to be careful with yourself," he murmured, kissing the back of my head.
Then he slowly lied me down on the hospital bed.
He gently pulled up my hospital t-shirt—exposing my reddish breasts. Studied them gently.
"I'll give you ointment tomorrow," he said, pulling the cloth back down.
He patted my head—soft, rhythmic—until my eyes grew heavy. I drifted off, I was in a deep sleep .