The Forbidden Throb Chapter 68

Daniel's POV:

Emma's head snapped up, her cheeks flooding with color that spread down to her neck.

"I—I was—" Her hands fumbled with the pen, nearly knocking over her water glass in the process. "The valve positioning. You were explaining the—the monitoring protocols."

"Was I?" I kept my voice mild, though I couldn't quite suppress the slight upturn at the corner of my mouth.

"Yes." She sat up straighter, shoulders rigid with determination.

Her fingers flew across the pages with urgency, eyes darting between the text and her notes. "The valve expands—through the catheter—wait, you mentioned the aortic position, which would be..."

She flipped through the materials frantically, clearly trying to locate the exact phrase I'd just used.

I watched her scramble for a moment, finding something oddly endearing in her distress.

"Third paragraph," I offered gently, taking mercy on her. "Second page of the technical overview."

Her hands stilled. She looked up at me, relief flooding her features.

"Right. Yes. Of course."

She found the passage and nodded repeatedly, as if convincing herself she'd meant to look there all along.

A quiet laugh escaped before I could stop it. "Found it?"

"Yes."

"Understand the positioning now?"

"Yes."

"Like my hands?"

"Yes—" The word came out automatically, matching the rhythm of her previous responses. Then her brain caught up with her mouth. Her eyes widened in horror. "I mean—*no*—wait, that's not—"

She stumbled over the words, each one coming faster than the last."I mean, they're very... skilled. Professional. Perfect for—well, for surgery, obviously."

A pause. She seemed to realize she was only making it worse.

"Precise," she added weakly, as if that would somehow salvage the situation. "That's all."

I felt the corner of my mouth lift despite my best effort to maintain composure.

"Well." I set down my pen deliberately, then extended my right hand across the table toward her, palm up. "If you're that interested, you're welcome to take a closer look. Touch, even."

Emma's face erupted into a shade of red I didn't know was biologically possible. "That's not necessary."

She pressed her palms flat against her notebook as if physically restraining them. "I won't get distracted again. I promise. Completely focused from now on."

The words tumbled out in a rush, her gaze fixed determinedly on the materials spread before her—anywhere but my still-outstretched hand.

I waited a beat longer before withdrawing it, feeling an odd flicker of disappointment.

"Pity," I murmured, picking up my pen again.

Her notebook rose like a barrier between us. "Continue, please. I'm listening now. Completely focused."

"Alright," I said finally, picking up where we'd left off.

She asked clarifying questions. Made margin notes. Underlined key terms.

The model student, fully engaged.

For about twenty minutes.

Then I noticed the way her pen slowed. Her head tilted slightly, resting against her palm. The questions became less frequent, her responses delayed by a beat or two.

"The monitoring period typically extends seventy-two hours post-procedure," I continued, watching her from the corner of my eye. "During which time..."

Emma's pen had stopped moving entirely. Her hand supported her head at an awkward angle, her eyes half-closed as she stared at the page before her.

No response. No note-taking. Just the soft, even rhythm of her breathing.

I finished the sentence anyway, then waited.

Silence.

I set down my own pen and turned slightly, getting a clearer view of her face.

Emma had surrendered completely to exhaustion, her cheek pressed against her folded arms on the coffee table, lips slightly parted.

The laptop screen cast a faint glow across her features, highlighting the dark crescents beneath her eyes.

*She's exhausted.*

The job situation. The move. The James Hayes incident. The constant adjustment to a life that had changed completely in the span of weeks.

I should wake her. Send her upstairs to proper rest.

Instead, I found myself shifting position, mirroring her posture—arms folded on the table, head resting sideways so I faced her directly.

Up close like this, I could see details I rarely had the chance to observe.

The faint dusting of freckles across her nose. The way her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks. The small scar near her hairline—barely visible, probably from childhood.

*That summer.*

I was trapped in Portland for a mandatory pre-season training camp I'd wanted no part of.

Before dawn every morning, I'd escaped to the beach, when the sand was still cool and the water rough enough to feel like freedom.

Then she'd appeared one morning. Small, with tangled hair and a sunshine smile, carrying a bucket of sea glass she'd collected.

"You're here early too," she'd said, as if we were co-conspirators.

I should have made an excuse. Left. Maintained the boundaries that made sense between strangers.

But something about her easy companionship, her lack of awe at a stranger, her genuine delight in showing me her treasures—it had made those morning beach walks the only bearable part of that summer.

She'd talked endlessly. About her grandmother's house. The books she'd read. And then she'd discovered my birthday. Demanded to know why I hadn't mentioned it.

I'd shrugged. "I don't really celebrate it. Everyone's always too busy."

But Emma had gone very still, her eyes wide and serious. "That's sad."

A pause, then her chin lifted with sudden determination. "Then I'll celebrate with you. Wait here tomorrow morning. "

I should have discouraged her. Should have explained that it didn't matter, that I was used to it.

Instead, I'd found myself nodding. "Alright."

The next morning, she'd appeared at dawn carrying a homemade chocolate cake wrapped in plastic—slightly lopsided, the frosting already melting in the summer heat—and a drawing: two stick figures standing side by side on a beach, looking out at wavy blue lines meant to represent the ocean.

I'd kept that drawing. Sometimes, late at night when I couldn't sleep, I'd find myself staring at it, at those two simple figures holding hands, remembering how uncomplicated and happy things had been then.

The memory shifted, turned dark. The crowd gathered on the beach. The small form floated too far from shore. The frantic grandmother collapsed on the sand.

I'd been the fastest swimmer. The only one who'd acted while others stood frozen.

The water had been colder than it looked. The current was stronger.