She tries not to let her thoughts wander, tries to think of other things, but sometimes she just gets distracted. She tries to concentrate on work, rather than how the sunlight is hitting his body as he stands by the window, how it makes his hair and eyes shine, how it gives his skin a soft glow. No, she concentrates on the stethoscope hanging around his neck rather than the skin beneath it.
She avoids, really tries to avoid, watching as he does everyday things like washing his hands after each patient. She certainly never thinks about dipping her hands in the bowl at the same time, how their fingers would intermingle with the soap bubbles, no never. She definitely does not think about any other activities that might involve soap, not ever. Instead she concentrates on the patient charts.
She won't acknowledge when his voice started having a strange affect on her. The mellow tones, the rough tones, how it changes depending on his mood, how she notices his mood. It must have been a recent thing, it can't have been happening for years? Since they met? Could it? She won't acknowledge that sometimes, perhaps sometimes, she wonders what it might sound like if it was a little husky and slightly out of breath. If his lips were close to her ear for any reason at all, any reason. She doesn't look up from the chart, concentrating, pencil sliding across the sheet, eyes fixed, concentrating on the words not the sound. Not the sound.
She tells herself that she has no opinion whatsoever on his clothes. That it's of no consequence that she prefers how his white coat looks on top of his uniform rather than his normal clothes from before the war. It's not her place to judge that the uniform jacket fits a little better, a bit closer to his lean body. She tells herself it doesn't make him look younger, more energetic, stronger. Tells herself it's a waste of time to repeatedly think about running her fingers over the starched shirt collar and cuffs in search of studs and buttons. None of those thoughts, none, cross her mind as she concentrates on the patient.
She does not, absolutely does not notice how he smells. Not the shaving soap smell of the morning, not the carbolic soap smell of the afternoon and not the subtlety fragranced soap of the evenings when he is dining at the Abbey. She doesn't notice because that would imply she might have a habit of breathing a little more deeply when he is close to her, of closing her eyes when she does it. Of course, that implication is completely false, she would never do that, only lovesick girls do that. She concentrates on gathering her things and leaving for the day.
She hardly considers the soft breath on her neck when he is standing behind her while talking, or leaning near her during a procedure. She doesn't give it a moments thought. How it makes the hair on her neck stand up slightly when the warm rush passes over her skin. Honestly, she doesn't consider that it feels slightly colder when he moves away and how it sends an involuntary shiver down her back. So when he doesn't move away and when she doesn't feel colder it seems a bit odd really. Very odd. She decides not to think about how it's just the two of them and how there is no reason for him to be standing this close, but she isn't going to concentrate on anything else.