Unwinding Ties

I look up to find him studying me intently, his gaze lingering on my eyes. I'm used to this reaction - people are often fascinated by my heterochromia - but something about his scrutiny makes me feel exposed.
"Your eyes," he says softly. "They're extraordinary."
I feel a flush creeping up my neck and quickly look away, busying myself with preparing the antiseptic. "It's a genetic condition called heterochromia iridum. Nothing extraordinary about it, I assure you."
"I beg to differ," he responds, his voice warm. "They're quite captivating."
I ignore the compliment, focusing on cleaning his wound. "This might sting a bit," I warn, applying the antiseptic.
To his credit, Mr. Anderson doesn't flinch. "You have a gentle touch, Nurse Hayes. I hardly felt a thing."
"Years of practice," I murmur, not meeting his gaze. "The cut isn't too deep, but I'd like Dr. Chen to take a look. He'll determine if you need stitches."
He nods, then asks, "Have you been working here long, Nurse Hayes?"
"A few years," I reply, keeping my answer vague. I'm not in the habit of discussing my personal life with patients, no matter how charming or influential they might be.
"And do you enjoy it? Your work, I mean."