Marcus leaned back, folding his arms. “Tell me something. If one of your patients came to you with these same symptoms, what would you prescribe?”
But the cramp didn’t fade. By the end of the week, she couldn’t hold a coffee cup without her hand trembling. She couldn’t sleep for the dull, burning ache in her forearm. And still, she showed up, masking her pain with compression gloves and a cheerful tone. elle lee in good hands
Elle felt something crack open in her chest—not painfully, but like ice giving way to spring. She looked at his hands, resting on the arm of his chair. They were strong and careful, the hands of a surgeon, but also gentle. Hands that had held hers steady during her worst moments. Hands that asked nothing in return. Marcus leaned back, folding his arms
“Then listen,” Marcus said, not unkindly. “You’ve spent years helping other people heal. Maybe it’s time someone helped you.” By the end of the week, she couldn’t
That night, Elle sat on her couch, staring at the splint Marcus had fitted onto her right hand. The apartment felt cavernous. No patients to call. No exercises to plan. Just her, the rain against the window, and the raw, unfamiliar silence of being the one who needed care.
The next morning, there was a knock at her door. She opened it to find Marcus Kael holding a paper bag and a small pot of yellow chrysanthemums.
“Patricia gave me your address,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Before you protest—this isn’t a house call. This is a neighbor bringing soup.” He set the bag on her kitchen counter. “My grandmother’s recipe. Good for inflammation. Also good for the soul, or so she claims.”