Mira woke up the next day and found herself in bed.
Did she crawl up to bed in her dreams?
Groggy and queasy, she pressed the heel of a palm against her brow. Each block of her muscle felt strained and sore from the fever, and her bones screamed in protest. But she made her way downstairs.
Over the kitchen island, Warshon was working on a portable screen next to a mug of coffee letting out steam. He had changed to a different black shirt, his short hair styled with hair clay. The sun slanted through the hedgerow outside and dappled his pale skin. Mira bit her bottom lip, her breath hitched just by looking at him.
A half smile perched on his burgundy red lips when he saw her. "Morning," he said, raising the mug to his lips, veins bulging in his forearm.
"Morning," she cooed, clasping her hands behind her.
"Slept well?"
"Don't you sleep at all?"
He let his eyes roam over the couch. "I had a nap."
"I can take the couch," mumbling, she dipped her head. "Don't want to cause you more trouble."
"There is no trouble," was all he said in response, his gravelly voice distant, cold even, his eyes back to the tablet.
Mira lowered her eyes. Stuffiness pressed heavily against her chest. Much to her chagrin, she had somehow grown used to his attention, his warmth, and his smiling eyes on her, so much so that it caught her off guard when he took them back.
You fool. Biting her lip, she cussed at herself and turned away.
"Come here."
His voice sent a jolt through her. She looked over her shoulder, her heart leaping.
He beckoned her over with his eyes, then let his hand glide across the marble counter, sliding the file before her.
She snuck another glance at him before opening it.
Mira Shostakovich
"My profile?" She parted her lips, her brows elevating. "You did this?"
"Erdem did. I only put in your last name. Since you aren't planning to give me the real one, I took the liberty. Judging from your penchant for Waltz No.2, you must like the composer."
"I, I was," stumbling through her words, she tried, or wanted, to explain but didn't know how or where to start, her eyes fixed on the file that made her anew: an apprentice to Dr. Warshon Qusbecq and a Republican by birth.
"About the birthday," he didn't wait for her to finish this time, probably tired of the new wool she had yet to pull over his eyes. "You said you're twenty-two next month. I'll keep it in mind if you want to celebrate. But for the profile, we just made it up, and to everyone else, Mira Shostakovich was born on the eighteenth of April. Don't blunder."
She nodded.
"The new clothes Nonna bought you online yesterday have arrived." He tossed a glance at the packages left in the living room area. "Try them on."
"Now?"
His head tip to the shoulder. "While I enjoy seeing you in my shirt, people talk." he crooned with a crooked smile. "I don't mind, personally. But do you?"
"Wouldn't matter if no one saw me, no?" she demurred despite the color she knew that was rising to her cheeks.
"True, but do you want to hide forever?" Leaning back, he tilted his head and looked down along the tip of his nose, his arms crossed. "That's the other matter I want to discuss with you. I can take you to the clinic, and you can start your first lesson today in my office while having your IVs. Or, you can stay here and sleep in. I'll ask Nonna to come again."
"Whichever is more convenient for you."
"Either way works for me. It's your call."
She faltered. The impulse to crumple to the floor like the pulp she felt was as irresistible as the temptation to start her learning as soon as possible. She closed her eyes, summoning Reynold to her mind and the indignation in his dying breaths. The sun felt warm on her skin, which she didn't feel she quite deserved. She batted her eyes open. "I want to learn, now."
"Go change, then."
Mira risked another glance at the man. But he didn't bother taking his eyes off the screen that shielded half his face from her view, his slender hands typing away. She puffed out her cheeks and did as bid. Too bone-weary for the stairs, she used the bathroom next to the living room. A whiff of antiseptic snagged on her nose, making her brows furrow. The blood-stained bandage and gauze stared idly at her from the top of the bin. She scooched next to it. Did his wound dehisce because he was carrying her? She turned back to the door, imagining how he had limped in.
He's the doctor. She shook her head. He knows what he's doing. Reminding herself to mind her own business, she threw on a beige cardigan with large round buttons and a pair of loose-fitting joggers the color of steel. The sneakers felt half a size too big. She made do by putting on two socks on each foot. Pulling the laces tight, she glanced sideways at a pink baseball cap with a wig that somewhat matched the color of her real hair. Not what she would normally wear, but she shrugged and jammed it on.
Back in the kitchen, she moved on tiptoes, unable to decide if she should disturb him at his work, and sat quietly back on the stool across from him.
The typing stopped, followed by too long a silence as he didn't say a word, propping the back of his hand against his cheek; his narrowed gaze looked amused.
"What's…wrong?" she hummed, stumbling over her words as she spoke.
"Nothing," he chuckled, his brows raising. "Just thought of how they always say that the clothes maketh the man. But seeing you now, I wonder if it goes the other way. Come here." He extended a hand to her.
Mira took his hand, her reluctance palpable, flouting at her effort to look poised. He waltzed her into his arms and adjusted the baseball cap. "Let's leave now so we can arrive at the office before everyone," he rasped in his lazy croon, his smile soft like the quilt in the morning too early for anything. "And hopefully, I can introduce you officially some other time after we shop for better attire."
"The clothes are fine," she mumbled her protest while trying to squirm away. But the hands on her head slipped down and gripped her waist. "And don't you have better things to do? Thought you're busy."
"I am busy, and I don't have time for anything unnecessary, but," he dragged out each word, his head angling, a frown contracting his brow. "For what I must have, they all come with a taste."
Switching off the screen, he took an inhaler out of his pocket and put it in her hand. "You left it in the living room," he continued. "While I recommended against using it mindlessly, and our goal is to wean you off it one day, you should always keep it on you for now."
"Sorry… I…"
He didn't wait for her to finish. Flipping the knee-length blazer of black cashmere that was hanging on the back of the stool, he threw it on his shoulders and towed her by the hand to the driveway.
"I can sit in the back," she murmured as he opened the door to the passenger seat, her eyes on her toes.
"Why?"
She risked a glance up to meet his gaze, the elegant arch of his brow contracting. "Since you find me an eye sore all morning, I..."
He lifted her up and buckled her into the seat.
Dazed by the cedar scent emanating from him, Mira put the back of her hand to her cheek, her other hand clutching the seatbelt. And as if it wasn't tormenting enough, on the drive, he put on those prehistoric classics, tunes that played into her soul. She pursed her lips to a slit lest the notes lodged in her heart would leap through her throat.
"Clench your teeth a little harder you may forget to breathe," he mocked, his smirk lazy.
She tossed her head to the window. Determined to ignore him, she kept her eyes on the roadside as they approached the throbbing heart of Konstinbul. Too engaged in bickering with Erdem the last time, she didn't pay due attention to the streets that never slept. Not much had changed since her first visit with her parents twelve years ago, and yet everything. She glanced at those expansive LED signs spreading lengthwise atop the towering buildings, and the ever-changing faces forever young and beautiful.
The music went on for the rest of the drive. Neither spoke another word. After they parked underground, Warshon led her to his office on the top floor of a building overlooking Phoenix Square. Facing the floor-to-ceiling window outside was a giant LED screen on which the rolling news covered breaking stories as they happened.
"Sit." He whisked a hand at the couch sprawling before an expansive desk as he went over an oak veneer bookshelf and scrounged a heavy textbook. "The first three hundred and twenty-six pages," He dumped the book on the alabaster coffee table before her. "Remember them."
Mira gulped, "All of them?"
"Problem?"
She shook her head.
"Good." He didn't so much as spare her a glance when he whirled for the door, and the room fell so quiet she could hear each of her pulses. She opened the book. Many turgid essays she had pursued in the past, but this was something else. It was three hundred pages of manual descriptions of the points, their locations on the body, how to needle the points, and their functions.
Mira blinked at them at a loss. Even the most vulgar cuss didn't feel creative enough an epithet to do her vexation justice. And she was too much a coward to throw herself out of the window now and let gravity finish the job. She closed the book with a thud and banged her head on the cover.
The door flung open again as Warshon came back with all the IV bags and catheters. A chuckle escaped from his throat. "Daunted?" Stooping before her, he grabbed her nape as he put his brow to hers. "Temperature is still high."
She twisted, trying to wriggle free.
"Maybe I should have left you in the house," he snorted with a lopsided grin. "You're still a patient after all. There's no need to rush."
She shook her head and snapped her eyes up. The instant she met his gaze, she regretted her boldness. So ablaze it left a stamp on her as if she could run to the edge of the world and still bear his marking. "I can learn, now."
"Good," he mused and let go.
"But is there a better way of doing it?" she ventured.
He snapped on the vinyl gloves, a smirk frolicking on those burgundy red lips. "Why don't you figure it out and tell me?" Taking her hand in his, he tied the tourniquet and put in the catheter.
"Cold?" he asked.
Mira glanced up at the IV warmer he always remembered to turn on. Something she needed to say, or perhaps ask, but the words hitched in her throat. She shook her head, earning a nod in reply.
A peek at his watch turned him away. He peeled off the gloves and tossed them into the bin. The door flung open and shut as he dashed out without so much as a word. Mira glanced back at the giant LED screen facing the office. Only five to eight. She wondered where he went. Doctors usually started early, and some early appointments began at eight. But she wished he'd have told her. Puffing out her cheeks, she shook her head.
Mind your own damn business.
The second she reopened the tome, she exhausted all her will to not close it immediately again.
Think. She commanded herself. Breathe.
Instead of flipping to the first chapter, she looked at the table of contents. Up to page three hundred and twenty-six were chapters on all the points located in all twenty different channels. Two meridian lines run the middle of the front and back, six along the arms, six along the legs that extended to the head, and six extraordinary. Rifling through, she squinted. A system throbbing beneath a skein of details, she thought, a smile tugging at her lips. Too absorbed, she didn't realize when he came back.
"You need a pen and paper?" he asked.
Whipping her head to the door, she saw him lean on his side against the frame, his arms crossed about his chest, flexing the muscles, the fabric of his shirt the color of the night straining against his broad shoulders in the shifting shafts of sunlight. All the pieces of rationality she had assembled shattered at the sight.
Warshon ambled to his desk. Picking up a pen with a stack of paper, he put them on the coffee table along with a brow bag of food. "Making progress already?"
"I won't call getting started progress," she grumbled under her breath.
His eyes rippled with a smile as if the sun glancing off the onyx. He sat down next to her, one leg upon the other knee. "Getting started is the hardest part, " he remarked, putting his hand on her baseball cap. His smile broadened into a laugh.
"What now?" She squirmed away.
"Just marveling at how I actually prefer the terrible haircut, that's all." He gave her an idle wink, then tipped his head to the bag of food. "Breakfast," he crooned, "Had to pick it up from the lobby. Couriers aren't allowed in the building without the badge for the turnstile downstairs for security purposes. And the front desk isn't here yet. But she should be soon, and I need to leave again. The first appointment is at eight-thirty." He flicked another glance at his watch.
"Aren't you going to eat with me?" she asked, her hand clamping over the other that was reaching at his sleeve.
He cocked a puzzled brow. "Careful with the needle," he scolded her, grabbing her arm.
"Sor –," she stumbled. "I know you hate the word, but you have to admit it's kind of impossible to go through the day without it."
"Don't trouble yourself with my ridiculous likes or dislikes." Another smile as he grazed her cheek with his knuckles. "I'd love to stay, but I must go now. The first appointment is a small surgery I need to prepare for especially now when Erden isn't here. I've sent him away on an errand if you want to know why he isn't here yapping your ears off."
She giggled, her head dipping. It had been a while since anyone tried to make her laugh. She wanted to thank him for that, to feel his face with her hand as he hers. But. But. But. The part of her that always prevailed doubted if he was only trying to make her laugh so she wouldn't inquire about the errand. "I was going to ask," she said instead, "don't you do surgery at hospitals?"
"Big ones, yes. But this is a minor procedure the clinic is equipped for." He rose to his feet, his suit pants fit nicely, flattering the thin waist. "Any more questions before I go?"
"When will you finish?" She willed her eyes to meet his.
"Hard to say." He held her gaze and huffed a sigh, his muscles rippled under the fine fabric, "I rarely had a lunch break. That hour is more of a window for emergencies, patients with urgent requests, that sort of thing. So, likely around six. The bathroom is behind that door. And take a nap if you get tired of studying." He grinned, flicking those onyx eyes at the weighty tome on her lap. "You know how to change IV bags? Dial one with the phone and call the front desk if you need help. I —"
"It isn't the first day I'm sick." She stopped him and shrugged. Then, bidding him a reassuring grin, "Don't worry, I'll study really hard," she added, dragging out the adverb.
Delving his hands into his pockets, he glanced down over his broad shoulder; his brow contracted where a smile lingered. "Good girl."
When the door clicked shut, Mira chewed on her bottom lip. She could still feel him, the cedar scent in the air, the warmth of his breath, his ease and grace in those onyx eyes…
"Wake the fuck up, Mira. You're such a fool!" She slapped her cheek and returned to categorizing the dump of information, not without more cusses.
***