Medicine Man

But freeze when I feel him at my back.

His heat.

God, there’s no way this ice king is cold to touch. No way.

His heat is radiating out of his body. In a wave, it reaches me, spans across my shoulders and spine, goes down to the back of my thighs. And that scent I’ve been breathing in ever since I stepped into this room?

That’s him, I realize.

It’s his smell. Rain, fresh and crisp, mixed in with his musk. It’s wafting around the room and all that time I spent in there was dangerous, because I think that scent has made a home in me.

“Willow.” He says my name and I have to bite my lip. Hard.

I’m going to ask him to call me by my last name. I have to. I don’t like how much I like the way he says my name. In fact, a flash of his soft lips shaping it streaks across my brain.

I whirl around to tell him exactly that, my bangs fluttering along my forehead. But my attention is snagged by the fact that he’s so tall. So freaking tall. So much so that even with my topknot, I only reach his stubborn chin.

His expression is neutral, professional. I wonder what my expression is.

“I want to see you again.”

I blink, all my systems have slowed down as I run his words through my mind.

He wants to see me. Again.

He wants to. See me.

Again.

“What?”

“In my office. Next week.”

Aren’t psychiatrists supposed to just write you prescriptions and then, send you on your way to a therapist? Why does he want to see me again so soon?

“W-why?” I ask my question, out loud.

“Because I think we have a lot to talk about.”

He’s staring at something, Dr. Blackwood.

The man who thinks we have a lot to talk about when I see him next week.

He’s by Beth’s office staring at the same collages as I did when I was trying to eavesdrop on his conversation with her the day he arrived here.

I’m standing at the mouth of the hallway, having just come down the stairs for breakfast, and there he is. All still with raindrops clinging to his hair and clothes.

It’s none of my business why he’s so stiff and tight while the world moves around him. Nurses are laughing. Techs are walking up and down the hallway with files. A few patients linger here and there. I see the girl from my floor, a pretty blonde, pacing up and down. A tech is trying to calm her. She gets agitated every morning before breakfast, but I don’t know why.

I should be avoiding all conversations with him, and yet, I find myself walking toward Dr. Blackwood.

Why? Because I’m curious. Super curious about him.

“Hi,” I greet him, facing the collages, trying to see what he was seeing. “Interesting photos, aren’t they?”

I feel him turning toward me. “Interesting shirt.”

I face him, then. All the earlier stiffness is gone from his body. He’s cool and unaffected. If I hadn’t seen him looking at the pictures with such severity, I wouldn’t ever have guessed that he was capable of such a reaction to something.

His eyes are on my t-shirt before he comes to look at my face. But I still feel his gaze there, on my chest, very close to where my heart is along with some… other things. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t focused on them. I mean, that would be ridiculous.

Right?

Even so, I feel like my lips are drying out and I’ve got this weird tingling in my chest.

“Were you looking at something in particular?” I ask.

He shoves his hands down his pockets. “Do you always wear t-shirts with one-liners?”

Something makes me fold my hands at my back, and my spine arches just a teeny-tiny bit. But he keeps his eyes firmly on my face. Not that I wanted him to move them or notice… my assets. But still.

“You don’t like to talk about yourself much, do you?” I comment, remembering how fast he closed up when we were talking about his dad.

I’ve thought about it a lot in the past few days, actually, since we had our meeting. There isn’t much to do around here. And I’ve concluded that there’s something there, between him and his dad.

“You don’t like that either,” he responds, kind of drily.

I don’t fight the smile that comes on. “So what, are we kindred spirits?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that.”

“Good. Because I can’t imagine the horror.” I lean toward him, slightly. “Of us being similar, I mean.”

Squinting, he nods. “Right. Because you don’t want to be similar to someone who’s – what was it – wacked. And psychiatrists are that, aren’t they?”

“You know it.”

A small smile appears on his lips at my answer, and I already know that it’s a rare thing for him. Smiles and chuckles. Laughter.