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Zayne returned from the conference with a commendation, three new research contacts, and a sunburn so severe it made him question his own intelligence. It was humiliating, really.
A renowned cardiac surgeon—precise, disciplined, perpetually composed—undone by a lounge chair and a cloudless sky.
He had fallen asleep outside on the balcony of his hotel room between sessions, jacket discarded, shirt opened, tie loosened. Just hoping to get some vitamin D, which he was constantly deficient in thanks to spending most of his time under the cold fluorescent lights of the hospital. The ocean breeze had been deceptive, cool enough that he hadn’t felt the burn creeping across his skin. By the time he woke, his chest and stomach were already flushed an angry red. Twelve hours later, it bloomed into a throbbing, relentless heat that radiated beneath his shirt like a fever, needling him constantly on the painful plane ride home.
Now he was back in his office, organizing files and getting caught up on some emails. It was after dark, and the hospital corridors were hushed. The staff had thinned to the night shift, footsteps echoing faintly in the halls outside his door.
His name carried through those halls with quiet reverence and sometimes a touch of fear. Residents straightened when he passed. Nurses anticipated his orders before he finished speaking. Interns sought his teaching, but avoided unnecessary eye contact.
He cultivated that respect. Control was essential in a place where hesitation cost lives. But control did very little for a sunburn.
He sat alone in his office, jacket already draped over the back of his chair, trying to ignore the rough sensation of his pressed white shirt and tie rubbing against him. The fabric clung uncomfortably to his overheated skin. Every brush of cotton felt like sandpaper.
He inhaled slowly through his nose, the way he did before beginning a surgery. Pain was information. Pain was manageable. He just needed to finish his work. He could endure the discomfort until got home.
Still, the small mirror on his cabinet door reflected an expanse of red across his face that made him wince whenever he caught sight of his own reflection. He looked reckless. Careless.
You would scold him when you saw him. The thought was strangely comforting. You would scold him, yes, but you would also fuss. You would worry. You would touch him without hesitation. There was a selfish part of him that almost welcomed the burn for that alone.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. His expression cooled automatically. “Come in.”
The door opened, and you stepped inside as if you owned the place. You closed the door gently behind you and beamed at him. “You didn’t text me you were back.”
God, he was happy to see you. The relief was quick and disarming. It slipped past his discipline immediately, settling warm and deep in his chest.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sorry, love. I came straight here when the plane landed. I was going to text you when I left the office.”
You hummed, and held up a small bag with a knowing smile.
“I brought aloe.”
He frowned. “You assumed I would need it?”
You tilted your head, scanning him in a way no one else ever did.
Like he mattered. Like he was valued for himself, rather than for his usefulness. Like he was more than a sharp mind and a pair of capable hands.
“You were at a seaside conference for four days. Of course you’re sunburned.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then paused. He exhaled, his tension loosening a fraction. “It’s a minor burn.”
You made a skeptical sound and set the bag on his desk. “Let’s see it, then. Take your shirt off.”
In any other context, those words would have died in the air under Zayne’s withering gaze. Nobody gave Zayne Li orders in his own office. This was his domain. He dictated what happened within these walls.
But with you, it was different.
You crossed your arms lightly. “Zayne.”
He swallowed. Nobody else in the hospital used his name like that. Soft, coaxing, threaded with affection and expectation. No title. No deference. Just him.
He obeyed.
He loosened his tie, then unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall from his shoulders. The cool air of the office hit his overheated skin, and he suppressed a hiss. Your expression shifted instantly from teasing to concerned.
“Oh,” you muttered, stepping closer. “You’re really burned.”
He straightened reflexively, as if posture alone could reduce the redness. “It will subside.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, your fingers hovered just above his chest, not touching, just assessing. The nearness alone sent a different kind of warmth through him, one that had nothing to do with the sun.
“You’re in pain,” you said quietly.
He held your stare. He could lie. But you always saw through it.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Your expression softened into something unbearably gentle. “Okay.”
That was it. No lecture. No dramatics. No teasing about his arrogance. You reached for his hand and tugged him softly toward the exam table in the corner of the room.
“Lie down,” you said, grabbing the aloe. “I’ll take care of you.”
His pulse stuttered.
In the hospital, he gave the orders. Clear. Sharp. Absolute. People moved because he spoke. Now, you were giving him an order.
And he wanted—God, he wanted—to follow it.
Still, he glanced toward the closed blinds, the door, the familiar sterility of his office.
“This is not appropriate,” he heard himself say stiffly.
You raised your eyebrows. “This is a doctor’s office, isn’t it? You’re injured. It seems very appropriate to me.”
Your playful tone cracked the last of his resistance. The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
He looked carefully at the little bottle of aloe. “What’s your plan?” he asked, retreating to the safety of clinical language.
“Plan?”
“If I’m to be treated,” he said mildly, “I assume you have a plan of care in mind.”
“Of course I do,” you said, your eyes sparkling again. “You’re just being stubborn. Lie down.”
The firmness in your voice was gentle but unyielding. It wrapped around him, not as a challenge, but as a promise.
He exhaled slowly and stepped toward the exam table, every motion deliberate. The paper crinkled under his weight as he sat, then slowly lowered himself onto his back. The cool surface beneath him sent a wave of relief across his overheated skin.
He took a shaky breath.
You stood beside him, opening the bottle of aloe. Its faint, clean scent drifted through the air. You met his eyes reassuringly and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
“Close your eyes,” you said quietly. “This will feel good.”
He did as he was told.
The first touch of aloe against his chest was bliss. Cool, calming, immediate. His breath caught as your fingers spread the gel gently across reddened skin. The sting dulled beneath your careful strokes.
He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding himself until that moment.
A soft, involuntary sound left him before he could stop it. His shoulders eased against the table. His jaw unclenched. The steady rhythm of your hands, slow and methodical, soothed him more effectively than any medicine could. He felt himself slipping into a sleepy kind of trance.
“You should have been more careful,” you muttered.
“I’m always careful.”
Your silence was deafening.
“Usually,” he amended, trying to hide his small, embarrassed smile.
You laughed softly and continued downward, palms smoothing aloe over his stomach. He opened his eyes, unable to resist watching you.
In this building, he was authority. Precision. Intimidation incarnate. But under your hands, he was simply a man who had fallen asleep in the sun. Compliant. Relaxed.
He felt small in the best way.
“You know,” you said, “the nurses didn’t want to answer me when I asked if you were back. I think they were trying to save me from your wrath.”
You leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “They said you’ve been in a mood all afternoon.”
He hummed noncommittally and twitched under your hands. “Pain makes one irritable.”
“I noticed. Hold still.”
He forced his body back into stillness as your fingers traced gently along the edge of his ribs, careful around the most sensitive areas. The tenderness in your touch contrasted sharply with the reputation he carried.
“You realize that nobody else would dare treat me this way,” he mumbled, tilting his head back against the table as he suppressed a groan. “Like I can be ordered around in this hospital. In my own office.”
You laughed again and said nothing, capping the aloe and brushing your fingers lightly through his hair. “Rest now. Let it dry.”
He obeyed without question.
The great, respected Dr. Li, reduced to lying shirtless underneath you while you tended to him.
He was exactly where he wanted to be.
He reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together and resting them against his shoulder. “Is it time to go home now, love? It’s been a long day.”
You leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, careful of his flushed skin. “Of course. Soon. Just relax for a minute.”
He allowed his eyes to close again, surrendering to the coolness, to your presence, to the luxury of being cared for.
“You’re very good at following instructions,” you said softly.
“Only for you,” he replied, and his own voice sounded distant and faint.
It was the truth. He would never allow this from anyone else. Only you could corner him in his office, lay him down on his own exam table, and press cool aloe into his overheated skin. Only you could ask him to be still. And only you could make him willingly, quietly submit to it all.
He would sleep well that night, the pain tamed by another layer of aloe applied just before bed.