She’d started at the front desk a few months back, settling into the daily rhythms of appointments and insurance calls. She loved the small rituals—unlocking the doors each morning, putting out fresh pens, the way the coffee always tasted better before the first patient arrived. But what she loved most, if she was honest, was when Dr. Hale would walk by the front desk—always so calm, always watching her in that quiet, attentive way.
He’d offer a little compliment after she handled something tricky, the corner of his mouth lifting. Sometimes, when she caught a mistake or dealt with a difficult parent, he’d murmur, “Good girl,” under his breath—soft, just for her. Every time, it went straight to her core, making her stand a little straighter, try a little harder, and ache in a way she could never quite admit.
She’d mentioned her jaw once, weeks ago—how it ached sometimes in the morning, stiff and tender, probably from grinding her teeth at night. It came up in passing, something to fill the awkward silence at the desk after lunch, but Dr. Hale had paused, taking note with that calm, appraising look.
“We’ll take a look when there’s time,” he’d promised. “No sense letting it get worse.”
She’d almost forgotten. It was the sort of thing you say and never expect to follow up on. But every so often, he’d remind her, always after she’d handled something tricky—“Don’t think I forgot about that jaw. We’ll get you in the chair one of these days. Perk of working here. Good girl.”
The words made her pulse jump every time.
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