The Annual Exam: A Doctor's Dilemma

I'm going to be honest with you: this isn't how I expected to meet the love of my life.

When you imagine finding "the one," you picture coffee shops and bookstores and maybe those cheesy meet-cutes where someone spills a drink on you and then apologizes so charmingly that you fall in love on the spot. You don't picture a doctor's office. You definitely don't picture being in a paper gown while a stranger tells you to turn your head and cough.

But life doesn't care what you picture. Life just happens.

My name is Evan. I'm thirty-four, and I'd been putting off my annual physical for about three years because, like a lot of men, I convinced myself that ignoring health problems would make them not exist. But my company switched insurance plans, and the new one required a physical before they'd approve coverage, so I didn't have a choice.

That's how I ended up in the waiting room of Dr. Marcus Hayes's practice on a Tuesday afternoon in March, filling out forms about my medical history and regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

The nurse who took my vitals was friendly enough—chatty in that way medical professionals are when they're trying to distract you from the fact that they're wrapping a cuff around your arm or sticking a thermometer in your ear. She told me Dr. Hayes was running a few minutes behind but would be with me soon.

I sat on the exam table in my paper gown, scrolling through my phone, trying not to think about how exposed I felt. The room was cold. The table was uncomfortable. The motivational poster on the wall told me to "Breathe" in cursive letters, which felt aggressively unhelpful.

Then the door opened, and Dr. Hayes walked in, and I forgot how to follow the poster's advice.

He was tall. That was the first thing I noticed. Tall and broad-shouldered with dark skin and a close-cropped beard that was starting to gray at the edges. His eyes were warm behind wire-rimmed glasses. He smiled when he introduced himself, and I felt my stomach do something that definitely wasn't related to the physical I was about to endure.

"Mr. Chen? I'm Dr. Hayes. Sorry for the wait."

"Evan. And it's fine."

"Evan." He said my name like he was filing it away for later. "So, it's been a while since your last physical?"

"About three years. I know. I'm terrible."

"You're not terrible. You're here now. That's what matters."

He asked questions while he reviewed my chart. Medical history. Medications. Lifestyle factors. He was thorough without being robotic, genuinely interested in the answers rather than just checking boxes. When I admitted that I didn't exercise as much as I should and my diet was mostly takeout, he didn't lecture. Just nodded and said we'd talk about some options later.

Then came the actual exam. Blood pressure. Heart and lungs. Eyes and ears. The normal stuff. He was professional throughout, explaining each step before he did it, asking permission before touching me. But I was hyperaware of every contact. His hands were warm. Gentle. I had to work very hard not to react in ways that would make the rest of the appointment extremely awkward.

"Okay, last part. I'll need you to stand up and drop the gown."

"Right. The fun part."

He laughed. A genuine, warm sound that made me feel slightly less like I wanted to die of embarrassment.

"I promise I'll make it quick."

He did. Professional. Clinical. Over in thirty seconds. But when he told me to turn my head and cough, our eyes met for just a moment, and I saw something flicker in his expression. Something that wasn't entirely clinical.

Or maybe I was imagining it. Hard to tell when you're standing naked in a doctor's office with your most vulnerable parts in someone's hand.

"Everything looks good. You can get dressed. We'll do some bloodwork, and I'll call you with the results in a few days."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Unless you have questions?"

I had a thousand questions. None of them were appropriate. So I just shook my head and waited for him to leave before putting my clothes back on.

He called three days later. My bloodwork was mostly fine—slightly elevated cholesterol, nothing serious. He recommended some dietary changes and said he'd see me next year for a follow-up.

I thought that would be the end of it. A weird attraction to my doctor, a story I'd tell my friends as a joke, something to file away under "embarrassing moments I'll remember at 3 AM forever."

And then I ran into him at a coffee shop.

It was a Saturday. I was in line, debating between a latte and an Americano, when I heard a voice behind me.

"Evan?"

I turned. There he was. Dr. Hayes. Except he didn't look like Dr. Hayes right now—he looked like Marcus. Jeans. Casual sweater. No white coat. Just a guy in a coffee shop.

"Dr. Hayes. Hi."

"Marcus, please. I'm not at work."

"Right. Marcus."

We ended up at a table together. I'm still not sure how it happened. One minute we were making small talk in line, the next we were sitting across from each other with our drinks, talking like old friends.

He told me about his practice. How he'd gone into family medicine because he wanted to know his patients as people, not just problems to solve. He'd been doing it for twelve years. Loved his job. Didn't love the paperwork.

I told him about my work. Marketing for a tech company. Not as noble as medicine but it paid well and I was good at it. I mentioned that I'd just gotten out of a long-term relationship a few months back. He mentioned that he'd been single for about a year.

"Dating in your forties is brutal," he said. "Everyone has so much baggage. Including me."

"Thirties isn't much better. Everyone's either already married or terrified of commitment."

"Are you? Terrified of commitment?"

"I was in a relationship for five years. That's pretty committed. It just didn't work out."

"What happened?"

"We grew apart. Wanted different things. The usual clichés that turn out to be clichés because they're true."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was the right call. Just took a while to realize it."

We talked for two hours. The coffee shop started filling up with the afternoon crowd, and neither of us noticed. When he finally checked his watch and said he had to go, I felt a strange pang of disappointment.

"This was nice," he said, standing. "Unexpected, but nice."

"Yeah. It was."

He hesitated. I could see him weighing something.

"I shouldn't ask this. It's probably inappropriate. But would you want to do this again sometime? Not as doctor and patient. Just as... two people having coffee."

"I'd like that."

He smiled. Wrote his personal number on a napkin. Actual pen on actual paper, like something out of an old movie.

"Call me. If you want."

"I will."

I waited two days to text. Didn't want to seem too eager. Then immediately regretted waiting because what if he thought I wasn't interested?

Dating is a nightmare. This is why I avoided it for so long.

He responded within minutes. We made plans for dinner that weekend. A restaurant he liked. Somewhere casual but not too casual.

The date was... good. Better than good. We talked about everything—music, travel, families, politics, all the stuff you're not supposed to discuss but end up discussing anyway when the conversation is flowing. He was funny. Thoughtful. He listened like what I said actually mattered.

At the end of the night, he walked me to my car. We stood there in the parking lot, not quite ready to leave.

"I had a really good time."

"So did I."

"This is weird, right? Dating my doctor?"

"You're technically not my patient anymore. I transferred your file to a colleague."

"When?"

"The day after the coffee shop. I wanted to be clear about boundaries."

"That's very responsible of you."

"I'm a responsible person. Mostly." He stepped closer. "Is this okay?"

"Yes."

He kissed me. Soft at first, then deeper when I responded. He tasted like the wine we'd had at dinner. His hands settled on my waist, pulling me closer. When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

"I've wanted to do that since you walked into my exam room."

"I've wanted you to do that since you told me to turn my head and cough."

He laughed. That warm, genuine laugh I was already becoming addicted to.

"Romantic."

"I try."

We took things slow. Partly because he wanted to be careful—he had a reputation to protect, a practice to maintain. Dating a former patient was frowned upon even if it wasn't technically against the rules. But mostly because we were both old enough to know that rushing never ended well.

We had dinner. Movies. Long walks through the city. Quiet nights at his apartment, watching shows and talking about nothing. He cooked. I couldn't. We compromised by ordering takeout and pretending I helped.

The first time we slept together was a month in. At his place, after a dinner he'd spent all afternoon preparing. We'd been dancing around it for weeks, the tension building every time we kissed goodnight and forced ourselves to stop.

That night, neither of us wanted to stop.

"Tell me if this is too fast."

"It's been a month. I think we're past 'too fast.'"

"I just want to be sure you're comfortable."

"Marcus. I've been thinking about this since you gave me a prostate exam. I'm comfortable. Trust me."

He laughed, but it turned into something else as I pulled him toward the bedroom.

He was gentle. Attentive. The same way he'd been during the exam, but transformed into something intimate. He asked what I wanted, what felt good, adjusted based on my responses. He touched me like he was mapping my body, learning its secrets.

"You're beautiful," he said, looking down at me with something like wonder. "I hope you know that."

"I'm average at best."

"You're perfect. To me."

When he pushed inside me, we both went still. Adjusting. Breathing. Then he started to move, and I forgot how to think about anything except him.

After, lying in his bed, my head on his chest, I said, "Is this weird for you? Knowing so much about my body before we even dated?"

"A little. But also... I knew you were healthy. I knew there weren't any surprises. In a way, it took the pressure off."

"That's the most doctor response possible."

"I am a doctor. Can't help it."

"I'm not complaining. The attention to detail definitely translates."

He kissed the top of my head. We fell asleep like that, tangled together, the city lights glowing through his window.

⏳ Six Months Later We told people gradually. His colleagues first—the ones he trusted to understand. Then my friends. My family. His family.

Most people had questions. "How did you meet?" was the most common, and we developed a sanitized version that glossed over the prostate exam. "We met at his practice" became the official story, which was technically true and spared everyone the details.

His practice thrived. He'd been worried about gossip, about patients leaving when they found out their doctor was gay and dating a former patient. But the opposite happened. Word got out that Dr. Hayes was welcoming to the LGBTQ+ community, and his patient list doubled in three months.

"I should have come out years ago," he said one night. "I was so worried about what I'd lose. I never thought about what I might gain."

"Better late than never."

"Better late than never."

We moved in together after eight months. His apartment was bigger, nicer, closer to both our jobs. I brought my stuff in boxes and slowly watched it merge with his until the place felt like ours.

I still saw his colleague for my checkups. That part was non-negotiable. But sometimes, late at night, Marcus would use his doctor voice to give me "instructions," and I would follow them very obediently.

"This is probably unethical," I said once, after a particularly thorough "examination."

"Probably. Good thing I'm not your doctor anymore."

"Thank god for that."

⏳ Two Years Later He proposed on the anniversary of my first exam. Romantic? Weird? Both, probably. He'd made dinner—he'd become an excellent cook over the two years—and when I walked into the apartment, the table was set with candles and flowers and a small velvet box.

"Two years ago today, you walked into my exam room in a paper gown and changed my life."

"That's... a way to put it."

"I know it's unconventional. I know our story isn't the kind you tell at dinner parties. But I love you. I've loved you since the coffee shop, maybe before. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

He opened the box. Simple ring. Classic. Perfect.

"Evan Chen, will you marry me?"

"Yes. Obviously yes."

We got married in the spring. Small ceremony. Close friends, family. His colleagues from the practice, my coworkers from the company. Derek officiated because he'd gotten ordained online and we thought it would be funny.

In my vows, I thanked my insurance company for requiring a physical that year. Everyone laughed. Marcus cried. I cried. The whole thing was a beautiful, sappy mess.

We honeymoon in Italy. Ate too much pasta. Drank too much wine. Stayed in bed most mornings because we could.

And now here we are. Three years since a routine physical turned into something extraordinary. A lifetime ahead of us.

I still hate going to the doctor. But I love coming home to one.

That's the trade-off, I guess. Sometimes the things that scare you the most lead you to exactly where you need to be.

Turn your head and cough, indeed.