Emma's Perspective

The morphine wrapped me in a fuzzy cocoon, but it didn't erase the pain entirely—just muted it to a persistent, gnawing throb that flared with every breath or subtle shift. The couch was softer than the table, the blankets a welcome weight, but the hours ahead stretched like an eternity in the firelit cabin. Marcus didn't leave my side, his presence both comforting and charged, that longstanding crush simmering beneath the surface, amplified by my vulnerability. He explained that the first few hours post-op were crucial, and he'd need to do a thorough examination to ensure no complications—vitals, abdominal assessment, even more invasive checks to monitor for infection or ileus from the surgery. The word "invasive" sent a shiver through me, a mix of dread and that twisted thrill, my emotions raw and heightened by the pain.

"Alright, Emma, I need to do a full check now," he said gently, about four hours after I'd woken, his voice steady but his eyes searching mine for consent. "We'll take it slow. Tell me if anything hurts too much, okay? You're already handling this so well—most people would be demanding more meds by now."

I nodded weakly, my throat tight. "Okay... just... be careful." The pain made my voice small, but his praise warmed me, easing the tension a fraction.

He started with the basics, easing back the blanket and lifting my sweater again to expose my abdomen fully. The cool air hit my skin, raising goosebumps, as he removed the bandage completely this time—the tape pulling with a sharp sting that made me wince. "Sorry, deep breath," he murmured, his gloved fingers steady. The incision stared back at me when I dared to glance down: a neat, three-inch red line, puckered at the edges with black sutures like tiny railroad tracks, faint bruising blooming around it. He inspected visually first, then palpated lightly around the site, his fingers pressing in circles—each touch sending jolts of tenderness through me, a deep ache that bordered on nausea.

"Does this hurt here?" he asked, probing the upper edge, his touch firm but controlled.

"A little... yeah," I gasped, my hands clenching the blanket. "It's like... pulling inside."

"That's normal—the tissues are inflamed. You're doing great, Emma. Just a bit more." His praise was constant, a soothing rhythm, but the examination deepened. He fetched his stethoscope, the metal bell cold as it pressed against my bare skin in quadrants, listening to bowel sounds. The gurgles were faint, sluggish from the anesthesia and opioids. "Not as active as I'd like," he noted, frowning slightly. "We might need to encourage things along."

My heart skipped—what did that mean? He explained next: to rule out post-op ileus or constipation, which was common, he'd need to do a rectal exam and possibly administer a suppository or enema if needed. The words hit like a flush of heat to my face, embarrassment warring with the pain. "Is... is that necessary?" I whispered, my voice trembling, emotions surging—vulnerability peaking, the intimacy overwhelming.

"It is, to be safe," he replied softly, his hand resting on my arm, squeezing gently. "I know it's uncomfortable, but it'll help with the pain in the long run. You've been so brave already; this is just one more step. I'll make it as quick as possible."

I bit my lip, tears pricking my eyes from the ache and the humiliation, but I nodded. "Okay... I trust you." He helped me roll slightly to my side, the movement pulling at the stitches like fire, making me cry out softly. "Easy, breathe through it," he coached, his voice low and reassuring. He adjusted my jeans lower again, exposing just enough, the fabric sliding down my hips with a whisper. The glove snapped on, lubricant cool and slick—then the intrusion: his finger gentle but insistent, probing internally for any blockages or tenderness. The pressure was strange, invasive, a burning stretch that mingled with the abdominal throb, sending waves of discomfort through me. I tensed, whimpering, my face buried in the pillow.

"Almost there... relax if you can," he said, his free hand rubbing my back in slow circles. "No major issues—good. You're holding up amazingly, Emma. Just a suppository to get things moving." The insertion was quick, a cold, waxy push that made me gasp, but he was done swiftly, pulling my clothing back into place and helping me settle on my back again.

The pain lingered, amplified by the procedure, leaving me sweating and emotional. "That... that hurt," I admitted, tears slipping down my cheeks. "Everything hurts."

Marcus's Perspective

Watching her endure the exam twisted something in me—her pain evident in every wince, every tense muscle. I kept it professional, but the intimacy was undeniable, her trust stirring feelings I'd kept at bay. Starting with the abdominal palpation, her skin warm under my fingers, the incision site tender but clean—no heat, no induration. Bowel sounds hypoactive, as expected, leading to the rectal check. Her hesitation was palpable, but necessary; post-op complications could spiral fast.

"You're managing this with such strength," I praised during the palpation, keeping dialogue open to distract and comfort. "Tell me about the pain—scale of one to ten?"

"Six... maybe seven when you press," she replied, her voice strained, green eyes meeting mine with a vulnerability that tugged at me.

"Noted. We'll adjust the meds." The rectal exam was the most invasive—her flush of embarrassment mirroring my own internal conflict—but clinically vital. As I proceeded, her whimpers cut deep. "You're doing perfectly, Emma. Just a few seconds more." Post-insertion, I covered her quickly, sitting beside her as she cried.

"I know it does," I said softly, wiping her tears with a thumb, the gesture lingering. "But you're through the worst of it. I've seen patients twice your age break down completely— you're tougher than you know." Emotions welled; the situation had stripped away pretenses, her crush evident in her glances, mirroring my own suppressed affection. "Talk to me—what's going through your head?"

Emma's Perspective

His touch on my cheek was electric, grounding me amid the pain. "I... I feel so exposed. Like... you’ve seen everything now." My words tumbled out, the emotional high making me honest. The suppository's effects stirred faintly inside, adding to the discomfort, but his presence eased it.

He chuckled softly, not mocking, but warm. "In my line of work, I've seen a lot. But with you... it's different. You're not just a patient, Emma. You've always been special to me—Alex's little sister who grew into this incredible woman." His words hinted at more, building tension slowly, his hand still on mine.

"Special how?" I pressed, the pain fading slightly under the morphine, curiosity overriding.

"Smart, resilient... beautiful, even now." He paused, eyes locking on mine. "I shouldn't say that, but... this storm, this situation—it's made me realize things I've ignored."

My heart raced, the crush blooming. "I've felt something for you too... for years. But I never thought..." The dialogue flowed, tentative, as the fire crackled, the pain a backdrop to our cautious exploration.

Marcus's Perspective

Her question opened the door, my response measured. "Special in ways that complicate things with Alex. But here, alone... maybe it's time to acknowledge it." We talked through the night, dialogue weaving comfort and subtle flirtation, her pain drawing us closer without rushing.