The Forbidden Throb Chapter 105

Daniel's POV:

The thought hit me with unexpected force, and I had to look away, focusing on setting down my briefcase, hanging up my jacket.

Anything to give myself a moment to collect the thoughts that were rapidly scattering.

When I turned back, she was still watching me.

"These are for you," I said, holding out the flowers.

Emma's face lit up. She took the bouquet carefully, as if it were something precious.

"They're lovely. "

She moved past me to the cabinets, and I caught a hint of her perfume—something light and floral.

While she searched for a vase, I stood frozen in the middle of my own living room, trying to process the scene before me.

"Emma."

She looked up, a question in her eyes.

"All of this," I said, gesturing at the table, the food, her dress. "Is it... for me?"

Her blush deepened, but she held my gaze. "Yes, it's only for you."

She turned back to the pot, and I watched the nervous energy in her movements—the way her fingers trembled slightly as she ladled soup into a white porcelain bowl.

When she brought it to the table, her hands were careful, deliberate, pushing the bowl toward me with such focused attention that her fingertips brushed against mine.

The contact sent a jolt through my entire arm.

My breath caught. The simple touch of her skin against mine felt electric, intimate in a way that made my pulse spike.

I looked up from the bowl to her face, and she quickly withdrew her hand, a pink blush spreading across her cheeks.

"Careful," she murmured, though whether she was warning me about the hot soup or something else entirely, I couldn't tell.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus on the bowl in front of me. "This looks incredible."

"It's nothing special." She slid into the chair across from me, her eyes darting away. "My husband has been working so hard lately. I thought he deserved something... nice."

*My husband.*

The words hit me like a physical blow.

She'd never called me that before—not in that soft, deliberate way that made it sound less like a legal formality and more like a claim.

I set down my spoon, not trusting myself to speak right away.

Emma was busy ferrying dishes from the kitchen—roasted chicken with herbs, glazed carrots, fresh bread still warm from the oven. The emerald fabric swayed with each movement, and I found myself transfixed by the domesticity of it all.

She was watching me now with that mixture of hope and nervousness that made something in my chest twist painfully.

*Is this real?*

The thought surfaced unbidden. For a moment, I even found myself thinking of the sedatives in my office drawer, wondering if someone had slipped me something.

"Daniel?" Her voice pulled me back. "Are you alright?"

"Perfect," I said, meaning it in ways I didn't know how to articulate. "This is... perfect."

I lifted the spoon to my lips, and the moment the broth touched my tongue, years of medical training kicked in.

My mind automatically catalogued the flavors.

I lowered the spoon slowly.

"Emma." I kept my voice even, professional. "What's in this soup?"

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Oh, um... it's Grace's recipe. She said it would help you... recover your strength. From all the long hours at the hospital."

Her cheeks flushed deeper. "She was very specific about the ingredients. Why? Is something wrong?"

I pressed my lips together, fighting back the urge to laugh—or possibly groan.

Of course Grace would do this. The woman was trying to help her granddaughter's marriage along, in the most well-intentioned, potentially catastrophic way possible.

"It's... fine," I said carefully. "Just very... traditional."

Emma's brow furrowed. "Traditional? Grace said it was her grandmother's recipe for—" She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening as realization dawned. "Oh my God. Is it... is it one of those—"

"Tonics," I supplied diplomatically. "Yes."

The silence that followed was excruciating. Emma looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole, and I was trying desperately to keep my expression neutral despite the heat already beginning to creep through my system.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I didn't—Grace said it was just for energy, I didn't realize it was—"

"It's fine." I reached across the table, covering her hand with mine before I could stop myself. "Really. It's... thoughtful. Just unexpected."

She nodded, not quite meeting my eyes, and we ate in relative silence after that. But I was hyperaware of every movement she made—the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the delicate line of her throat as she swallowed, the soft sound of her breath.

*Focus,* I told myself sternly. *You're a doctor. You have self-control.*

After dinner, I needed space, air, anything to clear my head. But when I sank onto the couch, my eyes landed on a stack of papers on the coffee table.

Medical journals. Research papers.

My research papers.

I picked up the top one, recognizing it immediately. But it wasn't the content that made my jaw tighten. It was the annotations.

Bright yellow sticky notes covered the margins, and the handwriting was distinctly masculine—bold, confident strokes that belonged to someone young and eager to impress.

The notes were overly detailed, explaining concepts in a way that suggested the writer was tutoring someone. Teaching them.

Teaching Emma.

"*Myocardial contractility just means how well the heart muscle squeezes—think of it like...*"

I flipped through the stack.

"Who wrote these?"

I hadn't meant to sound quite so sharp, but Emma froze.

"Those? Oh, those are..." She hesitated, and I saw the exact moment she realized she'd made a mistake. "A classmate lent them to me. For my medical journalism project."

"A male classmate." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she said slowly. "He's in medical school. Harvard, actually. He heard I was working on related program and wanted to help."

"He has excellent taste in research subjects," I said evenly, setting the papers down with deliberate care. "What's his name? This helpful medical student?"

Emma shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable. "Blake. Blake Morrison. He's a fourth-year, I think. Clinical medicine."