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musicforastylesrestaurant · 4 months

Text

Tremulous.

adjective ‘shaking or quivering slightly’

in which, your a patient of doctor styles, and even though he’s supposed to be a professional, his attraction towards you blooms when he can’t seem to get you out of his head, but there’s a few problems that seem to be in his way.

word count - 2.6k

authors note- i know that this could have been longer considering the wait, but the other parts are going to be much better, contain more of a story, and definitely be longer, im sorry if this is not what you all expected <3

warnings: mentions of domestic abuse, hospitals, swearing, and a man named corey.

January 27th, 2024.

Once, you fervently clung to the notion of happily ever afters, your worldview painted with the romantic brushstrokes of fairy tales. However, that unwavering belief underwent a profound transformation. Life's intricate narrative unraveled before your eyes, revealing the nuanced shades of reality that escape the simplistic tales.

About a year ago, the realisation struck you like a revelation. The fairy-tale endings you once sought seemed elusive, replaced by the complex tapestry of life's unpredictable twists. You navigated through disappointments, heartaches, and the ever-shifting sands of relationships, learning that happiness wasn't a static destination but a dynamic journey.

When you met Corey, you beloved that just everything was going to be perfect, that you were going to get married, start a family and then finally would live a happily ever after.

But now, sitting in a hospital waiting room, a black eye and some bruised ribs, you soon realised that a happily ever after was not on your cards, and you didn’t think it ever would be.

Seated in the desolate hush of the hospital waiting room, Corey is by your side, his hand resting on your knee. However, the once-comforting touch has turned into an unintended source of discomfort. His nails, instead of offering solace, are slowly digging into your skin, creating a painful undertone beneath the already strained atmosphere.

The black eye you wear becomes a visible testament to the turbulent storm that has swept through your life, a storm now reflected in Corey's furrowed brow and tightening grip.

Each breath brings a searing pain to your ribs, a constant reminder of the physical toll exacted by whatever led you to this sterile purgatory. Corey's scowl intensifies, mirroring the tension in the room, as if the shared discomfort has found a physical expression.

The minutes drag on, marked by the rhythmic ticking of the waiting room clock, and you find yourself caught between the silent agony of your injuries and the unspoken worry etched on Corey's face.

You've always harbored a deep-seated desire to work in a hospital, a passion that initially fueled your excitement to embark on the journey of medical school. Back when you first met Corey, the prospect of donning a white coat and making a difference in people's lives seemed like a tangible dream. Fresh out of college, you were poised to step into the world of academia, eager to pursue your lifelong aspiration.

However, the trajectory of your dreams shifted when Corey entered the scene. In a whirlwind of emotions, he managed to sway your mind away from the academic pursuit you'd envisioned. With promises of missing you and a shared future that seemed brighter together, you decided to forego university and chose a different path.

Now, in the painful silence of the waiting room, regrets echo through your thoughts, as the realization settles that the sacrifice made for love might have cost you the chance to pursue your professional calling.

You can’t help but wish that you had gained enough courage back then to abandon him, because now…now your too scared to even breath around him, let alone run.

A nurse emerges from one of the doors, a clipboard in hand, and calls your name, "Y/N Y/L/N."

The mention of your name cuts through the sterile air, and both you and Corey rise from the uneasy embrace of the waiting room chairs. Your hands tremble as you follow the nurse, her brisk steps leading you into a room. The corridor seems to stretch indefinitely, anxiety intensifying with every step.

Once inside the room, the nurse gestures towards the bed,

"Please, have a seat." The paper on the bed crinkles beneath you as you comply, Corey standing nearby, his eyes mirroring the concern etched on your face.

As you settle onto the crisp hospital bed, the nurse efficiently checks your vitals, the rhythmic beep of the monitor punctuating the tension in the room. Her practised hands move with precision, measuring your pulse and blood pressure.

After the thorough examination, the nurse glances at the readings and nods.

"Your vitals seem stable," she states, her professional demeanor carrying a hint of compassion. "A doctor will be in to see you shortly. In the meantime, if you need anything or if the pain intensifies, don't hesitate to press the call button."

The weight of the impending doctor's visit hangs in the air, and you exchange a glance with Corey, your unspoken worries echoing in the silence of the room.

As the nurse departs, Corey's demeanor shifts abruptly. He harshly grabs your face, turning it towards him, his grip uncomfortably tight. His words cut through the air, "Remember what we said you'd tell them, right?"

A cold shiver runs down your spine as you nod in agreement, the tremor in your voice betraying the underlying fear.

Corey's gaze remains intense as he adds, "If you say the wrong thing, you will regret it."

The ominous warning lingers in the room, leaving you with a sense of dread.

Before you can respond, the curtain is abruptly pulled back, revealing a doctor with brown curly hair and piercing green eyes. Tattoos peeking out from the top of his scrubs and doctor coat hint at a more casual side.

His entrance interrupts the charged moment between you and Corey, injecting a fresh wave of tension into the air. The doctor offers a professional smile, though his gaze holds a discerning curiosity.

"Good afternoon. M’Dr. Styles," he introduces himself, glancing between you and Corey. "Let's talk about what brought you in today."

The weight of Corey's warning still echoes in your mind as you navigate the delicate balance between truth and the narrative you've been instructed to follow.

With a hesitant gulp, you summon the courage to speak.

"Uh, I had a bit of an accident," you begin, your voice quivering. "I... I fell down the stairs."

The admission hangs in the air, and you avoid Dr. Styles' eyes, your gaze fixed on the sterile surroundings.

Dr. Styles, his expression unreadable, continues to observe you closely.

"Fell down the stairs?" he repeats, a note of scepticism in his tone.

You nod, trying to appear convincing while the weight of fear presses down on you. The room feels stifling as you navigate the delicate dance of half-truths, your primary concern not to incur Corey's wrath.

"It was just a clumsy misstep," you add, your words laced with anxiety.

Dr. Styles, a man of clinical composure, glanced at Corey's bruised knuckles without a word, documenting the silent evidence on his clipboard.

He then turned his attention back to you, a hint of professional detachment in his green eyes.

"Well, let's get started. Where is the pain located?" Dr. Styles asked, his voice measured.

Your response quivered with nerves, "It's in…my ribs, doctor…Been hurting quite… a bit."

The doctor nodded, scribbling down your words. His gaze flickered over Corey's hands, perhaps noting the story they told without needing verbal confirmation. The air hung heavy with unspoken tension.

"Now, I need to check y’heart rate. S’that okay?" Dr. Styles inquired, his eyes fixing on yours.

A nod escaped your body.

Looking directly at you, Dr. Styles sought more than a nod. "I need verbal confirmation, not just gestures. Can y’confirm verbally that I can proceed?"

A tense smile played on your lips as you stammered, "Yes, go…go ahead."

There was no denying that Dr.Styles wasn’t a good looking man, his green eyes looked captivating, and for some reason, you felt safe in his presence.

The same couldn’t be said for Corey.

As the stethoscope pressed against your chest, a rush of anxiety surged through you. Your eyes met Corey's, silently expressing the fear of unravelling under the doctor's scrutiny.

Guided through deep breaths, your heart raced under Dr. Styles' scrutiny. The doctor noticed the anxiety etched on your face but remained professionally silent. His expertise unfolded like a story, revealing only what needed to be seen.

"Alright, here we go. Deep breath in, and out," Dr. Styles directed, his actions dictating the pace of this clandestine tale.

"Heart rate seems stable. Anything else you'd like to share about how this happened?" Dr. Styles inquired, maintaining an air of curiosity without prying too deeply.

You shook your head, your story consistent, "No, just a…clumsy fall down… the stairs."

"M’need to run a few more tests," he explained. "Would y’mind if your friend steps outside and waits in the waiting room? It won't take long."

Corey, however, reacted strongly to the suggestion. "What? No way! I'm staying right here. I'm her boyfriend, and I have every right to be in the room!"

Dr. Styles, calmly, responded, "I understand y’concern, but there are aspects of the examination that are private. S’common for patients to have some privacy during certain parts of the examination unless they suggest otherwise."

Corey, not willing to back down, kicked off, insulting Dr. Styles. "I'm not leaving. This is ridiculous. I have a right to be here."

Dr. Styles, unyielding, reiterated, "It's standard procedure f’certain parts of the examination to be conducted in private, unless the patient suggests otherwise."

You shared a hesitant look with Corey, feeling the tension escalate. Finally, with a deep breath, you mustered the courage to speak up, "Corey, maybe it's….better if you wait…outside for this part. It won't take long…and I'll be fine."

Corey's expression hardened, but he reluctantly left the room, shooting a final glare at Dr. Styles.

With Corey outside the room, Dr. Styles spoke gently, "I need t’examine your abdomen to check f’any signs of internal bleeding. For a thorough examination, I'll need you to remove your shirt."

You hesitated, anxiety clouding your eyes.

"I... I don't want to take my shirt off," you admitted, your voice trembling.

Dr. Styles, his tone reassuring, explained, "I understand, but it's crucial to assess any potential internal injuries. I'll do my best to make you as comfortable as possible, and we can proceed at your pace."

Taking a deep breath, you nodded hesitantly, beginning to remove your shirt, leaving you in just a sports bra. Dr. Styles' eyes widened as he saw the bruises that marred your torso, a silent testimony to the pain you had endured.

Concern etched on his face, Dr. Styles gently inquired, "Are you okay with me touching you for the examination?"

“Yes Doctor.” With a hesitant nod, you allowed him to proceed.

“Please,” he caught your gaze and tilted his head to the side. “Call me Harry.”

Dr. Styles' cool hands glided across your body as he carefully examined your abdomen. The room felt silent, the only sound being the measured breaths you took to steady yourself.

Dr. Styles, noticing your discomfort, apologized, "M’sorry if this causes any pain. Please let me know if anything feels too much."

As his hands explored, you flinched when he pressed too hard on a sensitive spot.

You winced.

Dr. Styles immediately pulled back, concern evident in his eyes. "M’sorry for any pain. We'll take it slow, and I'll be as gentle as possible."

You nodded, appreciating his care, and he continued the examination with increased caution. The vulnerability of the moment hung in the air, yet there was a sense of trust developing between you and Dr. Styles,

Before proceeding with the examination, Dr. Styles decided to ask a few questions. "Let's start with something basic. How old are you?"

You replied, "I'm 25."

Nodding, Dr. Styles moved on to the next question. "How often do you exercise?"

You thought for a moment before responding, "I walk to work every day, so I'd say I get some exercise regularly."

Dr. Styles continued his inquiries, "Are you currently taking any medication?"

"No, I'm not on any medication right now," you assured him.

The next question touched on a different aspect, "Are you pregnant or currently trying to conceive?"

With a quick response, you answered, "No, not pregnant and not trying."

Dr. Styles, satisfied with the information gathered, prepared to proceed with the examination. "Thank you for providing those details.

Dr. Styles, with a cautious tone, expressed, "I have one more question, and I don't want you to take this the wrong way.”

You look up at him through thick eye lashes.

“Does Corey abuse you?"

The question hung in the air, and you felt a shock ripple through you. Corey had made it abundantly clear that uttering a word about what you went through was strictly forbidden.

In that moment, you hesitated, your mind racing, but you couldn't bring yourself to voice the truth.

With a heavy heart, you shook your head and replied, "No, Corey would never do anything like that."

Dr. Styles, perceptive to the delicate nature of the situation, continued with a compassionate demeanor, "I understand that this might be a sensitive topic. It's crucial for me to ask because your well-being is my priority. If, at any point, you feel the need to talk or share, my role is to support you."

Feeling the weight of the unspoken truth, you nodded, your eyes reflecting the internal struggle. Dr. Styles respected the boundaries, recognizing the complexity of the situation.

He added, "I want you to know that your safety and comfort are paramount. If you ever need assistance or someone to talk to, there are resources available, and my team is here to help. It's essential that you feel supported in your journey to recovery."

The conversation concluded with an understanding silence, leaving an open door for you to seek help when you were ready

Dr. Styles cleared his throat, breaking the lingering eye contact between the two of you. He stood up, a professional shift in his demeanor.

"M’going to get you scheduled for an x-ray based on the nature of your injuries," he explained, offering a reassuring smile.

As he left the room, you couldn't help but notice a soft smile on his face when he looked back at you. The curtain was pulled gently behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the echoes of the examination.

A realization began to dawn on him – the inherent injustice of your circumstances and the courage you displayed in the face of adversity. Amidst these reflections, another thought surfaced: just how remarkably pretty you were.

As he considered the emotional and physical toll you endured, Dr. Styles found himself admiring not only your strength but also your undeniable beauty. The compassion he felt transcended the professional realm, stirring a personal acknowledgment of the unfairness life had dealt you.

In a quiet moment at the doctor's station, he couldn't help but entertain a fleeting fantasy – what if circumstances were different? Dr. Styles wondered, with a twinge of regret, how different things might be if you weren't with someone like Corey.

In his opinion, you were gorgeous.

Your eyes would forever be stuck in his mind, even if he was to never see you again, the way your hair framed your face, and your dimples appeared when you were talking to him.

If he was to ever see you again, he would get to know you more, and he couldn’t help but wonder what you would look like with your body not covered in bruises, and wondered what your body would look like bent over his—

‘Stop it, Harry.’

His inner conscience told himself, you were his patient, and he was your doctor.

He had to be professional.

The unspoken connection between you lingered in his mind, and he found himself contemplating a different narrative, one where he might have asked you out, free from the shadows that seemed to engulf your current relationship.

As you sat on the hospital bed and picked at your fingernails, trying to remove the dried blood from under neath, when the curtain getting pulled open made you stop your actions and for your breath to hitch on your throat.

Corey stormed back into the room, anger radiating from him like a palpable force, his eyes fixed on you with a cold, threatening glare. The tension in the room intensified as he made a menacing declaration,

"You're in for it when we get home."

Your heart sank at the ominous words, and fear flickered in your eyes as you braced for what awaited you.

Oh, how you wished you had told Dr. Styles the truth, but just like always, you were starting to regret it.

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