Two
“Hello Harry, I’m Dr. Caster,” I extend my hand, and he shakes it, his gaze unwavering. The green of his eyes is even more striking in person than in the photos Scarlett forces me to look at, photos showcasing her obsession with his band. I enjoy their music, but admitting it to Scarlett would unleash a torrent of enthusiasm I’m not prepared for. She’s utterly devoted to Louis; I have no particular preference, though I admit Harry is undeniably attractive. The faint outline of tattoos hints beneath his thin white t-shirt, complemented by black skinny jeans and boots. He’s a handsome 28-year-old, no question.
“Well, are you going to look at my charts or keep gawking at me?” He asks, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I glance down at the papers, attempting to conceal my blush. To think *the* Harry Styles is in my hospital, of all places, is… unexpected. As I read, I discover he’s been diagnosed with Lupus, a chronic inflammatory disease. That’s all the chart says, which is unusual.
“Why does your chart only state Lupus? No details on progression, symptoms, anything?” I furrow my brow, looking at him.
“Well, my doctor said I had Lupus and needed to see a rheumatologist. Hence, here I am!” He smiles.
“Why Oklahoma, though? There are countless other places you could’ve gone, given your… position.”
“So you recognize me?” He lifts an eyebrow, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles—a pose that somehow manages to make him even more attractive.
“My best friend is rather infatuated with Louis.”
“And what about you? You don’t care for One Direction?” He inquires.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean… ugh, it’s complicated,” I bury my face in my hands. He chuckles, gesturing for me to continue.
“I’ve listened to your music, I really like it but I don’t want to admit that to my best friend because she will go insane on me,” I laugh.
“Ahhh, so you do like us then. Who is your favorite?” He smirks, studying me.
“I don’t have one, don’t flatter yourself. I’m not swept up in boy band mania like the rest of the world.”
“Fair enough,” he mumbles, then looks at me as if waiting for a response. I just stand there, awkward and unsure. What *do* you say to a celebrity? I’ve never met one before.
“You seem nervous,” Harry observes, breaking the silence.
“I’m not used to casual conversation with… celebrities.”
“I’m just a normal guy, Dr. Caster. Don’t treat me differently,” he smiles. That smile… gorgeous. *Woah*, hold on. He’s my patient.
“Right. We’ll run some tests to assess the disease’s progression, then discuss treatment options. I’ll send a nurse in shortly.” I smile, turning to leave.
“So you’re leaving me alone?” He stops me, turning back around.
“I have work to do, Mr. Styles.”
“You can’t keep me company for a few minutes?”
“I suppose I could,” I say quietly, biting my lip. He sits up and pats the spot next to him, which I decline, opting for my rolling chair.
“Ouch. I see how it is,” he says, smirking.
“The bed is tiny, and this chair is far more comfortable,” I say, spinning around. Harry bursts out laughing.
“What?” I smile, laughing with him as he nearly falls off the bed in his mirth.
“I’m not sure why that was so funny,” he states, regaining composure.
“Neither do I,” I chuckle, gazing up to meet his eyes. They’re captivating, drawing me in, and I find myself peering deeper, trying to decipher his thoughts.
“So tell me about yourself, Dr. Caster.” He leans back, resuming his previous position.
“There isn’t much to tell. I’m a 27-year-old rheumatologist fresh out of residency. Today is my first official day. I’ve lived in Oklahoma my whole life, sharing a flat with my best friend, Scarlett. What about you, Mr. Styles? What does an A-list celebrity like yourself do in Oklahoma?”
“After seeing my doctor in Cheshire, they sent me to America to see a rheumatologist because One Direction isn’t exactly busy lately. I decided on Oklahoma because my friend owns a house here, so it seemed like a good plan.” He shrugs.
“How are you liking Oklahoma?”
“It’s a neat place. I like it here.”
“Good,” I smile, glancing at my watch—1:30. How quickly time flies when you actually engage with patients. I laugh silently to myself. He looks at me with a confused expression.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about how fast time flies when you actually talk to your patients,” I smile, meeting his gaze.
“Well, I’m glad I can be of assistance,” he winks. “So you graduated from what college?” Harry inquires.
“Oklahoma College of Medicine.”
“I’ve heard that’s a fantastic school. Did you enjoy it?”
“Definitely. Wouldn’t trade it for anything.” I recall my residency, consumed by studying, realizing how bland my college experience was. Why didn’t I party? Because everyone else did. Parties happened occasionally, but the school was heavily monitored—which I didn’t mind, as it helped me focus.
“Earth to Dr. Caster,” Harry says, waving his hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was remembering college. Did you say something?”
“I asked what you liked about college,” he chuckles. I seize the opportunity to glance at his tattoos, which give him a tough edge, but after only a few minutes of conversation, I know that’s far from the truth.
“I liked the atmosphere. We were pushed to work hard and study because of the high level of college we were at.”
“So you didn’t party?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I did not. I’m not really a party-type person,” I bite my lip.
“Neither do I! We have so much in common!” He says with childlike enthusiasm.
“That’s only one thing we have in common, although I’m surprised you don’t party.” I admit, and he looks almost hurt.
“That stung. Deep down.” I roll my eyes and shake my head.
“Gosh dang it! I can’t ever keep a straight face!” We both laugh for a good few minutes. I haven’t laughed this much in a long time, considering all I do is work.
“Do you mind if I ask your first name? Just so I’m not having a casual conversation with ‘Dr. Caster’” he uses imaginary quotations with his fingers.
“My name is Victoria,” I laugh at his childishness.
“Victoria,” he repeats, testing it. “That’s a pretty name.” I blush and avert my gaze.
“Thank you.” I check my watch—3:00, past lunchtime. “Shoot! I missed lunch!” I stand up, pushing the chair back.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have kept you,” he looks down with a solemn expression.
“Don’t worry about it. I can still eat; 2 is more of a guideline.” I laugh.
“So I’ll see you later then?” He asks, his tone hopeful.
“I’ll be back as soon as your results are in,” I smile, turning to leave, knowing he’ll occupy my thoughts for the rest of the day.