𝐝𝐫.𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ‧₊˚
╰┈➤ fem reader. reader is haitham’s patient (this may be a bit self indulgent hehe). mild flirting. fluff. attempt at comedy, just a drabble ig, i love alhaitham fr— just wanted to write something small before disappearing again ehe. masterlist
The first time you met Dr. Alhaitham, he walked in like a problem you weren’t ready to solve.
The door eased open with a soft click, and you barely had a second to breathe before he stepped through. And just like that, every rational thought in your head short-circuited.
He was tall—so tall—and built like the universe had carefully balanced strength and elegance just for him. His white coat hung open, effortlessly draped over broad shoulders, the fabric swaying slightly with each step like it knew how lucky it was. Underneath, his black button up shirt fit too well and his tie perfectly in place.
But it was his face that hit the hardest.
Angular jaw. Perfectly cut cheekbones. Lips set in a neutral line that looked like they’d never curve into anything as mundane as a smile. His hair—a soft grey, slightly tousled like he'd run a hand through it absentmindedly—framed his face with just enough dishevelment to be maddening.
And then his eyes met yours.
Cool, turquoise irises - pupils rimmed with amber. Focused. Sharp. Like a lens sliding into place. He looked at you—not through you, not past you, but at you—and your brain promptly melted into static.
You forgot how to sit properly.
You shifted on the exam table and winced at the ridiculously loud crinkle of the paper beneath you. Great. Smooth. Very dignified.
He glanced down at his tablet. “Name?”
You mumbled it. Or at least, you think you did. Your mouth moved, and he didn’t ask again, so that was something.
His gaze flicked up again, this time assessing. “Hm.”
Just hm.
You wanted to die. Or be swallowed whole by the earth. Or maybe just crawl under the table and never come out again.
He walked closer, writing a few things down, entirely unfazed. His presence filled the room with a kind of quiet intensity, like a thunderstorm just waiting to happen. He asked clinical questions in a deep, calm voice that was way too smooth for your current state of mind.
When he stepped beside you and reached for your wrist, you nearly levitated off the table.
His fingers were precise, cool, steady as they pressed against your skin. Meanwhile, you were vibrating at a frequency only small rodents could hear.
“Pulse is elevated,” he said absently, glancing at the numbers. “Unusual.”
You cleared your throat. “I’m—uh. Just—nervous.”
“I assumed,” he replied, flatly. “Though I haven’t done anything yet.”
Oh my god.
Was that deadpan sarcasm? Was that dry humour? From him?
Your face burned. You could feel the flush rising like a tidal wave, heat crawling up your neck and settling in your ears.
He tilted his head slightly, studying you again. Not with empathy. Not with judgment. Just that same unreadable curiosity, like you were a particularly odd research sample.
“Try to relax. You're only making it worse.”
You let out a high-pitched laugh that did not help your case.
He returned to his notes without another word, cool and methodical as he moved through the rest of the exam. Every brush of contact was maddening. He was so calm, so put-together, while you were over here trying not to pass out from sheer mortification.
Finally, he stepped back and moved to the door.
He paused there, one hand on the handle.
“You should drink more water,” he said, still not looking back. “And maybe avoid overly stimulating environments.”
Then, after a beat—so soft you almost missed it:
“Charismatic doctors included.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
You sat there, frozen, heart racing like you'd just run a marathon on zero sleep and five cups of coffee.
You buried your burning face in your hands.
You were so, so doomed.
The second time you met Dr. Alhaitham, you told yourself it was just a check-up. Just routine. Just to confirm you’re healthy. That’s all.
You definitely didn’t fix your hair twice in the waiting room. Or rehearse what you’d say if he asked anything personal. Or almost chicken out at the front desk.
And then… there he is again.
Same white coat. Same unreadable face. Clipboard in hand. He doesn’t smile. He nods. That’s it. Like you’re a piece of data.
“Still having the same symptoms?” he asks, setting his pen against paper, eyes flicking up for half a second.
“No,” you say too quickly. “I mean—yes. I mean—sort of?” You feel the shame rise like steam in your face. Be normal, you beg yourself silently. Be a normal human.
His brow furrows. “That’s… not very clear.” He’s not being rude. He’s just direct. His voice is so flat, so serious, it makes you squirm.
You try to say something coherent while he approaches with the stethoscope. And then it happens again—he touches your wrist to take your pulse.
Immediate panic.
He blinks. “Still elevated.”
“It’s warm in here,” you blurt.
He tilts his head slightly. “It’s… twenty-two degrees Celsius.”
You die. Right there. He probably thinks you’re about to pass out. Or lying. Or both. Meanwhile, he’s moving through the appointment like you’re not experiencing a romantic crisis every time he breathes near you.
“You’re giggling,” he says, suddenly.
You freeze. “I’m—not!”
He looks up. That same unreadable stare. “You are. It’s fine. Some patients get nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” you say way too fast, your voice a squeak now.
He just nods again. “Hmm.”
Hmm.
That’s it. You’re never recovering from this.
Then, as he’s about to leave, he pauses. Flips through his notes.
“You drink enough water now?” he asks without looking at you.
Your stomach flips. He remembered.
You nod.
“Good,” he says. Still serious. Still calm. Still a walking paradox of soft hands and distant eyes. “You seem better. Maybe next time, you won’t giggle.”
And then he leaves.
And you sit there.
Absolutely gone.
The third time you met Dr. Alhaitham, you weren’t supposed to be here. You just needed toothpaste. That’s all. One boring little errand.
You’re in your softest hoodie, your least presentable state, and you’re standing in the pharmacy aisle, zoning out while debating between two brands of lip balm—because clearly, your life is thrilling.
And then, you hear it. That voice. Calm, low, quiet—but unmistakable.
“Excuse me.”
You turn.
It’s him.
Your doctor. In a black button-up and fitted trousers. No white coat. No clipboard. No clinical detachment to protect you.
Just… him. Hair slightly tousled. Glasses pushed up on his nose. Holding a box of vitamins like it’s the most casual thing in the world.
You nearly drop your chapstick.
“Oh,” you say. Too loudly. Too high-pitched. “Hi.”
His eyes land on you, calm as ever, and he nods like it’s perfectly normal that the man you’ve been lowkey fantasizing about is now standing three feet away by the travel-size shampoo.
“I remember you,” he says, flatly. Not unkind. Just observant.
You nearly ascend. “Uh—yeah. I’m… still hydrated.”
A pause. The corner of his mouth twitches. Twitches.
“That’s good,” he says, and somehow it sounds like a compliment.
You just stare. Like an idiot. Because he’s wearing a real person outfit. And his sleeves are rolled up. And his forearms exist. And he’s not doing anything wrong, but you’re actively malfunctioning.
He glances down at the item in his hand, then holds it up. “Do you know if these actually help? I’ve read mixed studies on the absorption rate.”
He’s asking you. For an opinion. On vitamins. And you’re trying to remember how to form a sentence.
“I—I mean, I just… get the gummies,” you say.
He actually blinks. “Gummies?”
You nod. “They’re easier to… chew?”
Another pause. And then, a quiet, rare sound: a soft huff of amusement. You don’t even think it’s a laugh. But it’s close enough to make your chest burst like a firework.
“You’re different outside the clinic,” he says simply.
You panic. “Is that bad?”
“No,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Just… surprising.”
Your heartbeat is in your ears.
You manage a half-smile. “You’re different too.”
He tilts his head. “How so?”
“You… have forearms.”
His eyebrows go up. You want to eat the floor.
“I mean—not that I think about your forearms—I just—”
He’s watching you. Quiet. Sharp. Then he says, very calmly:
“You’re blushing again.”
You wish for lightning to strike you on the spot. He adjusts the box in his hand like this is all very standard and unremarkable.
And then, as casually as anything:
“I’ll remember the gummies next time.”
And he walks away.
Leaving you standing there like a disaster in a hoodie, holding two kinds of lip balm and a pounding heart.
The fouth time you met Dr. Alhaitham, the waiting room is cold again, or maybe you’re just more sensitive today. You clutch your jacket tighter, feeling that weird mix of dizzy and tired that’s been creeping up for days. You told yourself it was nothing—just stress, maybe. But now you’re here again.
The nurse calls your name, and your heart skips. Because you already know who’s going to be behind that door.
You step into the exam room and sit down, and sure enough—there he is. Doctor Serious. Doctor Calm. Doctor devastating.
Except this time, his eyes linger longer when he sees you.
“You don’t look well,” he says immediately.
You blink. “Gee, thanks.” why do you think I am ? well its also to stare at your gorgeous face but I am not going to disclose that to you.
His brow lifts. You didn’t mean to sound so sarcastic. But your voice is quieter than usual, and your usual panic feels dulled by how out-of-it you feel. He steps closer, watching you carefully.
“Dizzy spells?” he asks, sitting down across from you. “Headaches?”
You nod. “Yeah. And I feel kinda tired all the time. Like… weirdly tired.”
He watches you. Really watches you. “Have you been eating regularly?”
You hesitate. “Um. I mean. Mostly. Maybe not perfectly.”
“Have you fainted?”
“No,” you say. “I just… feel like a dying Victorian woman sometimes.”
That earns a real reaction: a soft exhale, not quite a laugh—but the closest you’ve ever gotten. He looks at you again, like he’s trying to read through your jokes.
“Victorian woman,” he echoes.
You shrug weakly. “I’d look really cute collapsing into someone’s arms.”
His lips twitch. “Let’s avoid collapsing for now.”
He runs a few tests, checking your pulse again—so gently—and this time when your heart spikes, he doesn’t even comment on it. He just looks at you, a bit more quietly than usual.
“Your iron might be low,” he says. “Have you been on your period recently?”
You blink. “Why would you—how’d you—?”
“You’ve been here before,” he says simply. “You were flushed and talkative. Now you’re pale and slow to respond.”
You stare. “So you… remember me that well?”
He doesn’t answer. Just writes something into his file.
And then, suddenly, he says:
“You were at the pharmacy the other day.”
Your stomach flips. “Yeah.”
“I bought the gummies,” he says.
You blink. “Did they change your life?”
“Not yet,” he murmurs, writing something down. Then: “I don’t usually see patients outside the clinic.”
You don’t know what to say. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, but his voice is… softer.
“I just mean,” he says slowly, “you’re different. Less anxious today. Or maybe just tired.”
He looks up, and for the first time, there’s something like concern in his eyes.
“I want you to get a blood test,” he says. “I’ll write a referral.”
You nod, barely processing, because all you can focus on is the way he’s not looking at you like you’re a puzzle anymore. He’s looking at you like he actually… cares - well he is a doctor it is his job to treat you, his patient and to care for you as his patient.
And when you stand up to leave, a little wobbly on your feet, he places a hand gently—so gently—at your elbow.
“Careful,” he says. “You’re still a little pale.”
You look up at him.
“Will you be there when I collapse dramatically?” you ask, trying to joke through the fog in your head.
He doesn’t smile. But his voice is quieter than ever when he replies:
“Always.”
And then he lets go.
usagii's note ‧₊˚
welp, ill write another part tmr when i come back from college, ugh i love haitham, i wish he was real ssksjkjskjs
suddenly im sick and need to go to the doctor??
