The Forbidden Throb Chapter 151

Emma's POV:

Quinn's hand hovered near my elbow, not quite touching.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Let's get you something to eat."

I didn't want food. But Quinn was already steering me toward the elevator, his expression gentle but firm.

The hospital cafeteria was nearly empty at five-thirty on a Friday evening. Quinn guided me to a corner table and returned moments later with a tray: turkey sandwich, apple slices, and hot chocolate in a paper cup.

"You need to eat something," he said, sliding into the seat across from me. "Dr. Prescott would kill me if I let you sit here on an empty stomach for the next four hours."

My fingers wrapped around the hot chocolate, seeking warmth I didn't really feel.

I bit into the sandwich mechanically. It tasted like cardboard, or maybe that was just my mouth. My eyes kept drifting to the ceiling, as if I could somehow see through the floors to the operating room above.

"Dr. Prescott has been through situations like this before," Quinn said carefully. "More times than I can count, honestly. We're in cardiac surgery—we get the worst cases. The ones nobody else wants to touch."

He paused. "Family members losing control... it happens. Especially when they're terrified."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. My knuckles were white around the paper cup.

"Don't worry," Quinn continued, leaning forward slightly, "he really is used to it. I know that doesn't make it okay, but—"

He stopped himself, glancing at my pale face. "Just... please don't tell him I told you all this. If he knew you were this upset because of what I said, he'd have my head. "

"I won't," I managed. The words came out thinner than I meant them to.

Quinn's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then back at me. "I need to check on something in the ICU. Will you be okay here for a few minutes?"

"Of course." I forced what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "Go."

The moment he left, the smile fell away. I stared at the half-eaten sandwich, at the cooling chocolate, at my reflection in the dark window.

My chest ached.

I pulled out my phone, checking the time. six-fifteen.

*Daniel, standing there drenched in coffee.*

The image wouldn't leave my mind. He'd need clean clothes after the surgery. Something comfortable. Something that wasn't stained and ruined.

I could do something useful instead of just sitting here, drowning in worry.

The Uber ride back to Beacon Hill took twenty minutes.

The house was dark when I arrived. I opened Daniel's closet. His clothes hung in neat rows, organized by color and season.

Everything about this space was orderly, controlled, just like him.

Except when he was with me. Then sometimes that control slipped, just a little.

I selected a light blue shirt. Soft, broken-in cotton that would be comfortable after hours in surgical scrubs. A pair of dark gray dress pants. His black cashmere overcoat.

The drive back to Mass General took longer than the trip home had. Traffic had thickened, and I found myself tapping my fingers against my thigh, impatient with every red light.

Quinn was waiting in the surgical wing lobby when I approached him. His eyes widened when he saw the garment bag.

"You went home?"

"He'll need clean clothes," I said simply.

Something shifted in Quinn's expression—surprise giving way to understanding. He called over a young resident, a tired-looking man with kind eyes, and handed him the bag.

"Take this to the surgical locker room," Quinn instructed. "Make sure it gets to Dr. Prescott's locker."

"Yes, Dr. Chen."

I watched the resident disappear down the corridor, then turned to Quinn.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "For telling me everything. Daniel never really talks about... about the difficult parts of his work."

Quinn's ears turned slightly pink. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I probably said too much," he admitted. "But I just—" He paused, meeting my eyes. "As long as you two are okay. That's what matters."

The sincerity in his voice made my throat tight. "We will be," I said softly.

He nodded, seeming satisfied with that answer. "His office is unlocked. You can wait there if you want. I'll text you when the surgery is finishing up."

"Thank you, Quinn. Really."

He gave me a small smile before heading back toward the surgical wing, and I made my way to Daniel's office.

---

At eight-forty, I heard footsteps in the corridor.

The door opened.

Daniel stood there, freshly showered, wearing the blue Oxford shirt I'd brought. His hair was still damp, a few strands falling across his forehead. Deep red marks from his surgical mask ran from his cheekbones to behind his ears.

These marks on his pale skin looked like battle scars. Evidence of hours spent bent over an operating table, every muscle tensed in concentration.

He saw me and stopped. For a moment, we just looked at each other.

Then his lips curved into that small, gentle smile I'd come to know so well.

"You brought me clothes," he said.

"I thought you might need them."

"I did." His thumb stroked across my knuckles. "Thank you."

We stood there in the quiet office, just holding each other.

"Have you eaten?" I asked finally.

He shook his head.

I smiled and tugged him toward the elevator. "Come on, Dr. Prescott. Food first, existential questions later."

---

Outside, the air was sharp and cold. Daniel pulled me closer, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

"Want to grab something nearby?" he asked.

"Let's just go home," I said. "I'll make you something."

He stopped walking. "Emma, I can just eat something simple. You don't have to—"

"I want to."

And I did. I wanted to take care of him the way he was always taking care of me. Wanted to feed him and make sure he rested and be there when he needed someone.

"Okay," he said softly. "Home it is."

But we'd only made it a few steps when I remembered something. "Wait here," I said, already turning back toward the hospital entrance.

"Emma—"

"Three minutes! I promise!"

I ran back into the building and out the side entrance where I'd seen a 24-hour deli earlier.

Five minutes later, I was jogging back to the parking garage, arms full of bags. Chicken vegetable soup, still steaming. Soft dinner rolls. A container of roasted chicken salad—no spicy seasonings, I'd made sure to ask.

Daniel was leaning against his car when I found him, and the look on his face when he saw me running toward him, slightly out of breath and laden with food, made the whole mad dash worth it.

"Eat something warm first. I'm afraid your stomach might be bothering you." I said, handing him the bags as I caught my breath. "Just to tide you over until we get home. Then you can tell me what you want, and I'll make it for you."

He looked down at me, his expression unreadable.

I'd run too fast. I could feel my cheeks flushed pink from the heat, probably making me look like a windblown mess.

Then, without a word, he took the bags from my hands.

The moment he opened the plastic tie, steam rose up, filling the space between us with the rich, savory scent of chicken.

"I noticed you never eat spicy food," I said, watching him carefully. "Is it your stomach? I asked them to make sure the soup wasn't spicy at all." I gestured to the container. "The radish in their soup is really good. "

He hadn't said anything. My words started to falter, uncertainty creeping in.

"If you don't like it, we can just leave it," I finished quietly.

Several seconds passed. Then his Adam's apple bobbed once, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out rough, like he'd temporarily forgotten how to use it.

"I love it," he said quietly. "Thank you."

In the driver's seat, Daniel opened the container of soup. I watched him take the first careful sip, saw the tension in his shoulders ease slightly.

I turned to look out the window, giving him space to eat. But my eyes kept drifting to his reflection in the glass. The way he moved, the care he took with everything, even something as simple as eating soup from a plastic container.

Our eyes met in the reflection. I froze, caught staring.