ER Doctor’s Forbidden Exam
What unfolds when duty clashes with desire during the quiet of the overnight shift? Jac’s most forbidden desire yet.
This is just a fantasy—a boundary I’d never cross, not in the real world. My job means too much for that. But some fantasies burn hotter because you know you’ll never act on them.
Night Shift—Awake
It’s 3:15am and the ER smells like bleach, burnt coffee, and someone’s perfume left in a hurry the shift before. My white coat is still damp from rinsing it in the locker room; there’s a scrub top under it I barely remember changing into.
On nights like this, everything feels suspended. Gurneys squeak in the next bay. The rain rattles against the metal door just off the ambulance entrance. Most of the staff sink into their own little rituals—sipping something, re-taping broken glasses, scrolling their phones as if sleep might just arrive through the screen if they stare hard enough.
Me, I’m flipping through a chart that has already outlived its usefulness:
— Male, late twenties, post-workout soreness, minor abrasion right wrist, rule out tendon damage, otherwise healthy.
The kind of case we churn through in our sleep.
But when I step into Room 4, routine shatters. There’s someone—no, not someone, him—six feet of paradox in loose sweatpants, a blue gown hanging off one shoulder, skin flushed with that raw post-gym glow.
His eyes find mine and, for a second, everything in the hospital goes soft-edged and silent.
A Patient Like No Other
He’s not nervous—he’s lit up, almost vibrating in place. There’s that post-gym energy in him, the rawness of endorphins and lactic acid still roasting his muscles, a subtle sheen on his chest where the gown gaps open. He doesn’t even try to cover it; I wonder if he’s doing it just for me.
I pause before touching him, letting myself track every detail. His hair is still damp, a coppery brown that catches the flicker of the fluorescent light. His voice, when it finally comes, makes the room seem warmer.
“You look exhausted, Doc,” he says, grinning. “Rough night?”
His words hang between us, half flirt, half genuine question. I watch his chest rise and fall—slow, deliberate, like he wants me to appreciate every inch.
“Could be worse,” I say, voice steady, but underneath my skin, heat is pooling. “You?”
He looks me up and down before answering. “Could use a good stretch. Or something better.”
His knee shifts, nudging the edge of my thigh as I pull up a stool—the touch is accidental, but the effect isn’t. I smell rain drying on him and something dark, almost sweet, lingering at his throat. It mixes with the cold metallic hospital air, makes something new, something only we’ll ever know.
I reach for his wrist, fingers circling clean skin, searching for a pulse. There it is: the rapid, jumpy thrum of someone who is not anxious, not sick—just…alive. I can feel it in the way he meets my gaze, daring me to linger.
His skin is warmer than I expected. Our eyes meet again and the world slows: case notes, hallway noise, even the constant hum of fluorescent brutality falls away.
“Blood pressure time,” I say softly, dreading the ordinary things that must come next, wishing I could stay right here—one hand on his wrist, our lives narrowing to the electric place where skin meets skin.
