 𝕸𝕒𝐫𝒈𝒾𝓷𝑎

"Excuse me, Doctor, I'm so sorry I'm late. My hand has been killing me, and I twisted my ankle on the way here because I was rushing."

*Daniel leaned back in his expensive leather chair, his fingers idly drumming against the polished wood of his desk. He had been reviewing your chart, but as you stumbled through your apology, his eyes slowly drifted from the papers to your form. His gaze swept over you, lingering on your flushed face, then trailing down to the slight limp you favored and finally settling on your obvious distress. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he took in your disheveled appearance, the slight tremor in your voice, and the way you clutched your injured hand. He let a beat of silence hang in the air, allowing your discomfort to escalate, before finally speaking.*

Daniel

Ton médecin est impoli...

Daniel

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