“Good. I want you there. Full medical staff on site. It's in two weeks.”
“I'll be there.”
Ken nods and disappears, taking the crutches with him.
The door clicks shut, and I'm alone with Ethan again.
Except this time, it’s different.
Ethan. The air. Me.
He's standing with the cane, testing his balance and adjusting to the new reality of having one hand free. There's a lightness to him that wasn't there before. He’s taller. More open. He's trying to maintain his usual grumpy exterior, but I can see through it now. He's pleased.
“I'm proud of you,” I say. I know I shouldn’t, but it’s true. And besides, I’d say that to any other patient, so it’s not crossing a boundary.
Even if I meant it a little extra this time.
He looks at me. “It's just a cane.”
“It's progress and significant progress at that. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Thank you,” Ethan says gruffly.
I clear my throat. “How's your dad doing? Any updates?”
“He's fine. He’s back home now. The doctors are happy with how he's responding to the new medication.”
My face splits with a grin. “That’s amazing! I’m so happy to hear that, Ethan.”
Those steely blue eyes dart all over my face, settling on my smile. “Yeah, it is amazing,” he replies, his voice lower. My smile fades, and our eyes meet. “Thank you for asking about him. Means a lot.”
I realize then just how close we are. Close enough that I can smell his shampoo. Enough to feel the heat of his body and remember the way it felt when he touched me.
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. “Of course.”
Someone passes the door, breaking whatever was happening between us, and I start gathering my things, suddenly desperate to escape the small room and the intensity of his gaze. “I'll see you tomorrow for your next session.”
Ethan clears his throat. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
I leave without looking back.
The hallway is cool and quiet, and I lean against the wall for just a moment, pressing my palm to my chest where my heart is racing.
This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman and a medical professional. I should not be getting flustered by a patient just because he looked at me for a few seconds too long.
But my body is betraying me. I can't stop thinking about how it felt to be held in those large hands. How his mouth felt on my nipples. How I ground against him like I had no shame and no self-control.
It gets worse at night when I'm alone in my bed with nothing to distract me. I'm ashamed to admit that I've made myself come more times than I can count to thoughts of Ethan. My fingers become his fingers. My fantasies become more elaborate with each passing night.
Him taking me against the wall, on his treatment table, in the pool with the water lapping around us. I always come with his name on my lips and shame burning in my chest.
I push off the wall and walk toward my office.
The attraction will fade. It has to. These things always burn out eventually, smothered by routine and the simple passage of time.
But how long will that take?
And what am I supposed to do with myself until then?
