Chapter 154 Unexpected Vulnerability

Chapter 154 Unexpected Vulnerability
Charlotte: POV

I followed them to the X-ray room, my heels clicking against the sterile hospital floor. The room was cold and clinical, all white walls and humming machinery.

I stood outside the glass partition, watching as the technician positioned Michael's shoulder under the equipment. He winced—just barely, but I caught it.

‘Fuck, when did I start cataloging his microexpressions like some lovesick teenager?’

The technician's voice crackled through the intercom. "Hold still, please. Deep breath and don't move."

Michael's jaw tightened. Even from here, I could see the tension radiating through his body. He was in pain.

The machine whirred. The technician repositioned him twice more—once for the forearm, once for the ribs. Each time, Michael's face remained carefully blank, but I saw the way his breathing grew shallower.

"Your boyfriend's pretty tough," the technician said, glancing at me with a knowing smile.

I didn't correct her. What was the point? Besides, there was something weirdly satisfying about claiming Michael as mine, even if it was just pretend.

The X-ray finished, and Michael emerged from the room, his face carefully neutral. But I saw the way he favored his left side, the slight hitch in his breathing.

"All done?" I asked, moving toward him instinctively.

"Yeah." His voice was tight. "Just waiting on the results."

We made our way back to the treatment room in silence. The hospital's fluorescent lights made everything feel surreal.

‘Get it together, Charlotte. He works for you. That's it.’

The nurse from before was waiting in the treatment room, reviewing Michael's chart. "Good news," she announced. "No broken bones. Just a minor dislocation in the shoulder that we can pop back in. The forearm has some deep bruising but no fractures, and the ribs—" she paused, studying the images on her tablet, "—two are cracked. You're lucky they didn't puncture anything."

"I can still work," Michael said immediately.

"Absolutely not." The words came out sharper than I intended. "You're taking time off."

His eyes snapped to mine. "Ms. Caldwell—"

"Charlotte," I interrupted. "And I'm serious. You're injured because of me. The least I can do is let you heal properly."

"It's my job to protect you."

"And it's my job as your employer to make sure you're not permanently damaged in the process." I crossed my arms. "Besides, what good are you to me if your shoulder gives out at the wrong moment? Or if those ribs puncture a lung?"

The nurse chuckled. "She's got a point. Let me get the doctor to fix that shoulder."

She disappeared, leaving us alone again. The silence felt heavier this time, charged with something I couldn't quite name.

Michael shifted on the examination table, his eyes fixed on the floor. "You don't need to worry about me."

"Too late." I moved closer. "I'm already worried. Deal with it."

His throat worked as he swallowed. "This is inappropriate."

"What is?"

"This." He gestured vaguely between us with his good arm. "The way you're... the things you said earlier."

My cheeks heated. Right. The whole "hot as fuck" and "boyfriend material" comments.

"I was just messing with you," I said, but it came out less convincing than I'd hoped.

"Were you?"

The question hung between us, heavy and dangerous. I should laugh it off. Make another joke. Reestablish the professional boundaries we both knew we needed.

Instead, I found myself studying his face—the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip, the way his dark eyes seemed to see right through all my bullshit.

"I don't know," I admitted quietly. "Maybe not entirely."

Michael's breath hitched. For a moment, I thought he might say something, do something. But then footsteps echoed in the hallway, and we both stepped back.

The doctor entered, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and efficient movements. "Alright, Mr. Sullivan, let's get that shoulder sorted out."

I watched as she examined Michael's injury, explaining the procedure in calm, professional tones.

"This is going to hurt," the doctor warned. "But it'll be quick."

"I can handle it."

Of course you can, you stubborn asshole.

The doctor positioned herself, and I found myself moving closer without thinking. Michael's eyes found mine.

"Ready?" the doctor asked.

Michael's gaze never left my face. "Yeah."

The pop was audible, followed by Michael's sharp intake of breath. His hand shot out, grabbing mine, squeezing hard enough that my fingers ached. But I didn't pull away. I just squeezed back, anchoring him through the pain.

"All done," the doctor announced. "How does that feel?"

Michael released my hand slowly, flexing his shoulder experimentally. "Better. Thank you."

"Good. Now, about those ribs—there's not much we can do except let them heal naturally. No binding, that's outdated and can cause pneumonia. Just rest and shallow breathing exercises." She pulled out her prescription pad. "I'm prescribing pain medication and anti-inflammatories. Take them regularly for the first few days."

She handed me three tubes. "This ointment needs to be applied to all the lacerations twice daily—the one on the shoulder, the forearm, and especially the one along the ribs. Keep them clean and covered." She looked directly at Michael. "No heavy lifting for at least two weeks. No strenuous activity. Those ribs need time to knit back together."

"I can do it myself," Michael protested weakly.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Can you reach the one on your shoulder blade? What about the one on your ribs without twisting and potentially making the cracks worse?"

Michael's ears turned red. "I... probably not."

"Then you'll need help." She looked at me expectantly. "You're his girlfriend, right?"

Before I could respond, Michael opened his mouth—probably to correct her—but I cut him off. "I'll make sure he follows instructions."

The doctor smiled. "Good. Come back in a week for a follow-up. If the pain gets worse, or if he develops a fever or difficulty breathing, come back immediately."

She handed me the prescriptions and left us alone again.

Michael stared at me. "Why do you keep letting them think we're together?"

"Does it matter?" I grabbed the prescriptions and ointment tubes. "Let's just go home."

"Charlotte—"

"Please." I met his eyes, letting him see more than I probably should. "Can we just... not talk about this right now?"

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay."

We made our way out of the hospital in silence. My car was still in the parking lot, miraculously unscathed.

I unlocked it and slid into the driver's seat, waiting for Michael to settle in beside me. He moved carefully, obviously still in pain. Each breath seemed measured, shallow to avoid stressing the cracked ribs.

"You should take one of those pills," I said, starting the engine.

"I'm fine."

"Michael."

"I don't like being impaired when I'm working."

"You're not working right now. Doctor's orders, remember?" I pulled out of the parking lot. "Take the damn pill. You've got cracked ribs, for fuck's sake."

He sighed but complied, washing it down with the water bottle I'd grabbed from the hospital. We drove in silence for a few minutes.

Then Michael spoke, his voice quiet. "That ointment. I really can apply it myself."

I glanced at him, catching the way he stared determinedly out the window, his ears still pink. "You're what, part orangutan? Got extendable arms I don't know about?"

"I'll manage."

"Don't be ridiculous." I turned onto his street, pulling up in front of his building. "We've been through too much together for you to still be treating me like just an employer. We should at least be friends by now, shouldn't we?"