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The clinic was dimly lit, the hum of faulty fluorescent bulbs blending with the faint metallic clangs from the mines outside. It smelled of antiseptic and iron, a scent you’d come to associate with long nights and questionable patients. Back then, you were still green, running on coffee and ambition under the sharp gaze of an older, jaded medic. And yet, even with your mentor’s grim mutterings about wasting resources on “repeat offenders,” he always came back.
The pit fighter swaggered in like clockwork—dust and sweat clinging to his skin, his knuckles split and bloodied or some fresh stab wound marring his side. A walking disaster, and yet somehow grinning through the pain, cracking some awful joke the moment you picked up a suture kit. You used to roll your eyes, scoff at his shameless flirting, brushing off his comments as easily as you patched him up.
But after a few months, when he insisted on waiting for you even when another medic was available, something shifted. You started noticing the way his gravelly voice softened when he talked to you, the way his laughter filled the quiet corners of the clinic. And against your better judgment—against all your judgment—you began to look forward to those visits. It was maddening, really, the warmth you felt when he called you “doc” like it was a nickname meant only for you.
The sigh you let out feels like it’s been building for hours, maybe days. As you press your fingers into your temples, you try—really try—to recall what it was about this infuriating man that once made your stomach flip. The memory is distant, hazy, like trying to grasp smoke.
“You…” you start, pausing as though the sheer absurdity of the situation has stolen the rest of your words. “You fought a man three times your size?”
“Yup.” His response is maddeningly casual, accompanied by the faintest smirk on his stupidly chiseled face. Like he hadn’t just dragged himself in here looking like a near-death experience wrapped in bruises.
“And you thought this was a good idea…why?” you ask, more exasperated than concerned. You’re not sure why you bother asking anymore; his explanations rarely hold water.
He leans back on the examination table, as if your question requires deep thought, though the glint in his eye says otherwise. “Maybe to get some more time with you, gorgeous.”
Your jaw drops slightly before you clamp it shut, heat rising to your face despite every effort to suppress it. “Unbelievable,” you mutter, grabbing for the antiseptic. His grin only widens.
As you began to apply the serum to his wounds, Vander sat on the edge of the exam table, his broad shoulders hunched, shirt torn and bloodied as you worked to clean the deep gash along his ribs. He barely flinched at the pain, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands gripped the edge of the table like he was bracing for a fight that wouldn’t come.
“You’re too old for this,” you muttered, your tone more fond exasperation than scolding.
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, focused on your task. He watched you, his gaze heavy but soft, as if you were the only steady thing in a world full of chaos.
“You take better care of everyone else than you do yourself,” you finally said, taping the bandage in place.
“And you take better care of me than I deserve,” he replied, his voice quiet, almost reverent.
You paused, caught off guard by the honesty in his words, before shaking your head and packing up the supplies. “Please try not to make this a habit,” you said, knowing full well he wouldn’t. But the faint smile he gave you, a mix of gratitude and something deeper.
As you step closer, lifting the damp cloth to the cut along his cheekbone, Vander tenses—just slightly, almost imperceptibly—but it’s enough for his hand to shoot up, catching yours mid-motion. You freeze, startled, but the pressure of his touch is unexpected: not the iron grip of a pit fighter, but something softer, deliberate, as if he’s afraid he might hurt you.
Your gaze snaps to his, and for a moment, the room feels smaller, quieter. His calloused thumb grazes the veins on your wrist, a slow, almost unconscious movement that sends a warmth skittering up your arm.
“I’ll try to be gentle,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re not sure why you feel the need to apologize, but the words slip out before you can stop them. “I’m sorry.”
His lips twitch into a faint smile, the kind that feels more like reassurance than amusement. “It’s fine,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Just… surprised me, is all.”
The silence stretches, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Slowly, his hand slips away, and you return to your task, though now your fingers tremble faintly. For all his strength, all his rough edges, moments like this remind you of the man beneath the fighter. And for some reason, that makes it even harder to focus.
“What’d you say to me taking you out tonight?” Vander asks, his tone laced with that easy flirtation you’ve come to expect. There’s no edge to it, no weight to sway your answer—just an offer, simple and open.
You roll your eyes, the corners of your lips twitching despite yourself. “You visit a free clinic twice a week,” you say, giggling as you finish securing the bandage on his arm. “You can’t afford a night out with me.”
He leans in, close enough that you catch the faint scent of smoke and leather, his voice dropping to a warm rumble. “If it’s you,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “it’ll be worth it.”
Your cheeks heat under his gaze, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, brushing past him to clean up your tools. But even with your back turned, you can feel his grin—and the weight of his words—lingering in the air behind you.
“You know the bar across from Jericho’s?” you ask, still facing away as you organize the tools on the counter. You don’t need to look to know Vander’s posture shifts—straightening up on the table as if he’s been caught off guard.
“Yeah?” he replies, cautious but curious.
Finally, you turn just enough to catch his eye, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nine o’clock sharp,” you say, tilting your head toward him. “And you better be wearing something nicer than this,” you gesture vaguely at his torn, bloodstained shirt, “or I’m leaving.”
Suture kit in hand, you step back toward him, fully prepared to get to work on the fresh wound on his arm. But before you can begin, his face lights up with a smile so boyish and bright it nearly stops you in your tracks.
“Oh, trust me, Love,” he says, leaning just a little closer, his voice soft but sure. “I’ll be there.”
You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrays you. As you thread the needle, you find yourself already imagining what he might look like when he shows up. Because, for all his teasing and bravado, you know he wouldn’t dare miss it.