Chapter 1: The Most Awkward Checkup Ever

My chest was so flat, even my own mother was convinced it was a medical emergency. She stormed into my room on a Saturday morning, the scent of burnt Pop-Tarts still lingering in the hallway, and I could practically feel my cheeks burning before she even said a word. My comforter felt scratchy against my skin as I tried to hide, wishing I could melt into the mattress, but nothing could shield me from the humiliation brewing in my stomach.

She didn’t even pause for breath—just marched right in, eyes narrowed like Olivia Benson on SVU. “Get dressed, Autumn. We’re going to the hospital.” No amount of whining or burrowing under the covers could stop her. If stubbornness were an Olympic sport, my mom would’ve taken gold, silver, and bronze.

The doctor turned out to be my freshly dumped ex-boyfriend. My heart lurched, palms going clammy as I realized who was about to see me at my absolute worst.

Of all the rotten luck in the universe, mine had to land me in front of Nolan Carter, M.D.—the only person who could turn this mortifying situation into a full-blown nightmare. I half expected Chris Harrison to step out and announce I was starring in the cringiest episode of 'The Bachelor' ever filmed.

His face was stone cold, his jaw clenched, eyes flickering with something unreadable. His voice? Even colder—like he was prepping for open-heart surgery, not about to examine his ex. He didn’t even flinch when he saw me—just gave me that clinical, unreadable look. I swear, if he’d had a clipboard, he would’ve been checking boxes like he was at the DMV, waiting for someone renewing their license for the third time.

He lifted my shirt to my collarbone and, with hands as steady as ever, unclasped my bra. My mouth went dry, heart pounding so loud I could barely hear. My arms stiffened, and I tried to shrink into the crinkly paper on the exam table, caught between humiliation and the urge to sock him in the jaw.

The snap of my bra echoed in the chilly, antiseptic-scented exam room, and I felt about two inches tall. The cold air prickled my skin, making the whole thing feel even more surreal.

Then, with a smirk, he said, “Yeah, it’s definitely on the small side.”

He delivered it like he was reading the weather off his phone’s app—just the facts, nothing personal. I wanted to crawl under the exam table, gripping the crinkly paper sheet, and never come out.

I clenched my jaw, fidgeting with the edge of the table, and snapped back, shifting the blame: “Small chest? Guess my ex-boyfriend just didn’t put in enough effort.”

It was petty, but it was all I had left. My thoughts raced—what am I doing?—but the words hung in the air, sharp and desperate, my face flushing hot.

A moment later, he pinned me down on the exam table, and for a split second I was too stunned to move. His voice dropped, low and dangerous: “Looks like this exam isn’t quite finished. Maybe I should work a little harder.” My breath caught as I tried to process the sudden shift in his demeanor.

His breath was warm against my ear, the crinkling paper beneath me cold and unfamiliar. For a split second, the room felt impossibly small, the antiseptic tang sharp in my nose. My heart was pounding so loud, my palms sweaty, my breathing shallow—I was sure even my mom could hear it through the door.