He Wouldn’t Let Me Touch His Door, But She Wore His Shirt Chapter 01

He Wouldn’t Let Me Touch His Door, But She Wore His Shirt Chapter 01

I sighed in frustration when Julian Sterling rejected my request to use his shower for the fifth time.

“Julian, this neat-freak obsession of yours is getting ridiculous,” I said.

The relentless humid storm season had hit hard, and the water heater in my apartment had completely broken down.

Unfortunately, Julian was an orthopedic surgeon who lived his life governed by a strict, unbreakable set of rules.

Despite our three years of dating, he never allowed me to set foot inside his private sanctuary, no matter how miserable or drenched I was.

“Come on, sweetie,” Julian’s voice came through the phone, gentle but unyielding. “I just can’t stand anyone else using my bathroom. Can’t you just rough it out for one night and stay at a hotel?”

I was just about to give in and ask him what he wanted for breakfast tomorrow, but he cut me off.

Claiming he needed to review patient charts, he abruptly hung up the phone.

Fortunately, the hotel receptionist checked me in quickly.

While waiting for the elevator, I scrolled through Instagram and paused on a post from Valerie Brooks’s new assistant.

[Caught in the rain, but luckily someone let me soak in their massive bathtub, and they even left out rose petals for me,] the caption read.

The tiled accent wall in the background was painfully familiar.

It was the minimalist bathroom Julian always bragged about.

I stared at the steam on the screen for a long time.

I stood there until the receptionist stepped over, handing me a warm towel while watching me with concern.

“Ma’am, did you catch a cold in the rain?” she asked softly. “I’ve upgraded your room for free tonight. There’s no hurdle you can’t get past. A hot shower will make everything better.”

I hadn’t even realized I’d bitten my lip until I tasted iron.

I took the towel and forced a small smile.

“Thank you. You’re right.”

This obstacle named Julian—I was done trying to clear it.

******

I lay on the hotel bed, staring at Alyssa Hayes’s Instagram post over and over again.

I looked at it at least twenty times, verifying each time that it was indeed his place.

Clicking into Alyssa’s profile, I found another update from three days ago.

[Working too late to catch a cab, but someone insisted on picking me up. A surgeon’s hands are so steady—driving with him makes me feel so safe.]

The photo was taken from the passenger seat.

The hands gripping the steering wheel were long and slender, with a faint surgical scar on the middle finger.

Those were Julian’s hands.

Staring at the photo, my mind flashed back to 1:00 AM three days ago.

I had just finished working late, and the street was completely deserted. I texted Julian, telling him I was terrified of being alone.

[Just got out of surgery. Stay safe in your Uber,] he had replied.

I had stood on the curb for forty minutes that night, watching rides get accepted and canceled three times in a row before finally getting into a smoky cab that made me cough the whole way home.

Meanwhile, he was picking up Alyssa from work.

I kept scrolling down.

A post from a week ago was even more piercing.

[Spoiled with a gourmet breakfast sandwich this morning. Does this mean I’m being taken care of? Haha, just kidding.]

The kitchen counter in the photo was a white porcelain slab, and the knife block held a full, high-end Wüsthof set.

It was Julian’s kitchen.

In our three years together, I had never been allowed inside.

He always told me it was his sterile zone, claiming a surgeon’s hands couldn’t risk any accidents.

When I offered to help chop fruit, he would shake his head, his tone soft but non-negotiable. “Be good, sweetie. Don’t touch my things.”

Every single date resulted in either dining out or me cooking at my place, packing the food into disposable containers, and delivering it to him.

He would take the bag at the doorway, kiss my forehead, and shut the door.

For three years, I never crossed that threshold.

I decided to test the waters and texted Valerie. [Hey, where is your new assistant, Alyssa, renting her place?]

Valerie replied instantly. [No idea. She said a friend helped her find it. Supposedly it’s amazing and right by the medical center.]

Right by the medical center.

Julian’s apartment was directly across the street from the hospital.

I set my phone down, picked it up, set it down, and picked it up again.

Then it buzzed.

[On call tonight and exhausted. I have surgeries tomorrow too, so I might be too busy to see you these next couple of days. Goodnight,] Julian wrote.

I stared at the words, then clicked back over to Alyssa’s profile.

She had updated three minutes ago.

It was a selfie in the tub, surrounded by thick steam, with one bare shoulder showing.

Hanging on the hook in the background was Julian’s white lab coat.

[After a long soak, I stole his pajamas to watch TV. Not even scared of getting scolded,] the caption read.

His bathroom, his kitchen, his car, his pajamas.

Everything I couldn’t touch in three years, Alyssa had obtained in a single week.

I turned the hotel shower dial all the way to hot.

The water pelted the top of my head, streaming down my face.

I gasped for air, unable to tell the difference between the water and my tears.

When I stepped out, my phone screen was glowing.

Julian had sent a follow-up text. [By the way, I have a friend crashing at my place for a bit. Just so you don’t misunderstand if you happen to come by the building.]

Don’t misunderstand.

Three casual words.

He didn’t even bother to explain why his extreme neat-freak tendencies could suddenly accommodate a woman living with him.

For three years, it wasn’t that the door couldn’t be opened.

He just didn’t want to open it for me.