Doctor Daddy for Christmas

I knocked on his office door without waiting for a response like I did the first time and stepped inside. The man was perched behind his desk, radiating a kind of calm that only pissed me off more. His sharp features were framed by neatly trimmed stubble, and he had this casual, effortless posture that screamed, I’m too good for this place.

“We need to talk about Beverly,” I began, ignoring the flicker of surprise in his eyes. “She’s got a sore I already told you about. I flagged it earlier, but it hasn’t been addressed.” I wasn’t playing the polite, deferential role anymore. Not with him. Not today.

His eyes flicked up at me, but he didn’t react right away. He just sat there. Silent. Like he was waiting for me to finish my rant. And the longer he stayed quiet, the more I wanted to scream.

“I was planning to check on her after finishing this paperwork,” he said, finally speaking, his tone a little too smooth, a little too... perfect.

I crossed my arms, my voice cutting. “Well, she’s not paperwork, and this isn’t something that can wait. She’s diabetic, and you know what that means. If you’re waiting for the sore fairy to show up and fix it, you’re going to be waiting a hell of a long time.”

His brow lifted slightly. Still calm. Expression unreadable. The fire inside me crackled. Why wasn’t he pissed? I was practically begging him to lose his shit.

“Look,” I pushed, “I get it. You’re new. Probably trying to get your bearings. But you’ve been here long enough to put up your framed degrees. Maybe you could meet the people who live here, too. You know, the ones you’re supposed to be helping?”

I braced myself for the backlash—an angry retort, maybe a lecture about professionalism. Maybe even him telling me to back off, to know my place. I was ready for it.

But instead, he stood. Slowly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and the sound of his chair creaking beneath him only made my chest tighten. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t yell. He didn’t dismiss me. His eyes didn’t waver from mine, and for a moment, I felt pinned in place, like a bug under a microscope.

And then he said it.

“Thank you,” he said, and it was... sincere. “For being such a strong advocate for Beverly.”

I blinked, thrown off balance. I was expecting anger. Sarcasm. Maybe a sharp retort. Instead, I got gratitude. I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t know how to respond. The words caught in my throat, and for a second, I wasn’t sure what game he was playing.

“And for what it’s worth,” he continued, his tone steady but softer now, “I wasn’t ignoring her. I’ve been bogged down trying to sort through a backlog of charts and care plans that were... let’s just say not up to standard when I got here. I needed to review everything thoroughly to understand what each resident needs before making adjustments to their care. But you’re right—this can’t wait. Let’s go take a look.”

I hesitated. Was this some sort of trap? Was I about to get yelled at, or worse, fired? But when I met his gaze, I saw something different—something real. No fake smile. No condescending nod. Just sincerity. And it threw me off even more.

“Fine,” I muttered, shoving my tablet into my bag and leading the way.