Stitches | Poe Dameron

iii

"Come on, Stitches." Esma leans against the wall as I inspect the stitches on Poe Dameron's body. "You cannot tell me that you don't find this man attractive."

I shake my head as I find no imperfections or worries around the stitching. I lift my head to Esma.

"I never said that," I take off my sticky plastic gloves and laugh at her. "He's definitely attractive, but he's my patient and unconscious."

Esma wiggles her eyebrows.

"Then why is he shirtless? It's been two days."

I roll my eyes.

"One: he's covered in a blanket," I place my hands on my hips. "Two: you know we have to cut the clothes if we can't move the patient. And three: don't you have work?"

Esma groans a little and turns towards the door.

"You're no fun when you're at work." She smirks, "luckily on Friday I'm getting you shit-faced drunk."

I laugh loudly at Esma as she slowly moves out the door.

"I'll see you when your shift ends," she says as she's almost out the door. "Love ya, Stitches."

I shake my head as she closes my door.

"Your name is Stitches?"

I jump ten feet in the air at the voice. It was hoarse and strained and came from the supposedly unconscious man on my table.

I quickly get over my shock as I see him try to move his injured arm.

"No no no no." I say as I move towards him. "You're not allowed to move your arm, your muscles aren't healed enough yet."

The pilot looks over at me, then up and down. I feel slightly self-conscious at my white skirt, white shirt and plastic covers on my shoes. Even though he's been here for two days, I've never seen his eyes, they were captivating, and under his stare I knew why so many people were so taken with him.

"What happened to me?" His voice sounded dry.

"Here." I say as I grab a bottle of water from my counter and walk over to him. I tilt his head up enough and place the bottle to his lips, not failing to notice his hair, greasy and dirty from combat, but I cut people open so who was I to judge.

After he was finished drinking I set the bottle down and start checking his vitals, his eyes never leaving me.

"Your deltoid was almost completely ripped in two, Your tricep was ripped but not as bad as the former. I've stitched up all the places you were cut... and yea."

The pilot looks down at his left arm, his eyes widening.

"Wow." He says, looking at his arm and the parts of his chest he could see.

After he took in how beat up he was his eyes landed right back on me, which froze me in my place.

"Are you a nurse?" He asked, cocking his head to the side.

I raised an eyebrow.

"No, I'm a doctor," I told him. "A specialist."

The man on my table scoffed. And I crossed my eyebrows.

"You're too young to be a doctor, how old are you? 19?"

I cross my arms, suddenly feeling very defensive. I save this man's life and he has the audacity to doubt me.

"I'm 23."

Fuck no, why did I say that.

My breathing hitched slightly as I realize what I said. I grab my clipboard that was sitting at his feet in an attempt to change the subject. "I'm the best at what I do."