Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Red
Her moan won't leave me alone.
My name never stops breaking out of her throat.
And that damn photo she sent, glistening with her arousal while she threatened to cut off her clit, I don't even need to look at. It's etched forever in my brain.
Then there's my own voice, strained, unprofessional, and shamefully human, admitting more than I ever should have. Every detail pulses behind my eyes, violent, invasive, impossible to scrub out.
This shouldn't have happened.
It's my fault. I'm supposed to be the professional.
I broke every rule, line, and vow I made before I ever sat in a therapist's chair with a patient across from me. The oath I took to help people struggling, I've never abandoned.
Until now.
Groaning, I swing my legs out of bed and rub both hands over my face, like I can sandpaper my skin into a version of me that didn't cave last night. But the guilt clings, crawling and gnawing at the edges of my ribs and builds a pressure I can't breathe around.
What I did was unethical. What she did was manipulative. Together, it was catastrophic. And it has to end.
I stand and head into the bathroom, turning the shower knob all the way to cold. The blast of water hits my skin like punishment, and I let it. I deserve way worse than icy water. My breath hitches until the temperature finally numbs my chest, my stomach, and my thighs.
But even the cold can't stop memories of her voice, soft and trembling, whispering things that no patient should say to their therapist and ways no professional should react to it.
I twist the water off and grip the sink. My reflection stares at me, hollow-eyed, jaw tight, like a man who finally realized the ground under his feet isn't solid. I stare at myself and declare, "This ends today."
It has to. There's no option where I can continue treating her after last night. I'd be a danger to her, myself, and my license. Whatever fragile progress she's made, she'll have to do the rest with someone else.
I towel off quickly and get dressed in black slacks, a white button-down, sleeves rolled, and a stiff collar, telling myself I'll be professional, impenetrable, and untouchable.
I repeat the word inside my head like a mantra.
Untouchable.
But when I glance at the cobalt shirt peeking out of the laundry basket, my mind betrays me. Images of her in matching wet panties won't fade, along with her breathy voice.
"Fuck," I mutter, never thinking I'd be in this position. I leave the house determined to steer Blue in the right direction and never see her again.
The drive is a blur, sunlight too bright, every stoplight too slow. I keep replaying my plan to terminate her therapy, provide referrals, do a documented final risk assessment, and tell her goodbye. Distance is the only ethical path forward.
The sun shines brighter as I get to my office.
I get through the building, unlock the door, and the stale air hits me with a memory of her sitting cross-legged on the chair.
My gaze drifts to the spot I wiped after she left, and another onslaught hits me of her glistening pussy photo she sent me last night.
"Get it together," I reprimand and pace the office. Then I begin reorganizing the room, moving with a precision that borders on obsessive.
I move the chairs farther apart and place the crisis hotline pamphlets on the small table. I pull referral forms from my drawer and smooth them flat. Then I align my pen directly parallel to the clipboard and step back.
The room looks sterile. Cold. Exactly how it needs to look, but my chest tightens anyway.
Her face in the restaurant glares at me. It's the one when she stared at me with a mixture of defiance, hunger, and hurt so potent, it rattled something in me I didn't want awakened.
I pull my chair back another inch, needing more distance for her safety and mine.
I run through my script again, muttering, "Blue, yesterday crossed a line I should have stopped. You deserve a therapist who can help you safely. I will refer you to another professional who can help you and ensure your continuity of care."
Her voice from last night, whispering, "Dr. Mercer…oh God, Dr. Mercer," fills the room and coils around my spine.
My pulse kicks in my throat. My balls tighten, and I curse myself.
Stop.
Breathe.
Focus.
I sit at my desk and force myself to inhale slowly and exhale even slower. I should be leading her through grounding exercises, not needing them myself. The irony isn't lost on me.
My phone vibrates.
Blue: I'm here. Should I come up?
My body reacts like she whispered it into my skin. I close my eyes and steady myself. This session is not optional. It's necessary and irresponsible to cancel. She's too reactive, too unstable, too emotionally tied to me.
Do the right thing.
She needs help, not what I've done.
Me: Yes. Please do.
I stand, straighten my shirt, loosen my jaw, and take one last look at the referral paperwork. Then I walk to the elevator and wait.
The numbers move until they reach my floor. The doors open, and Blue appears in jeans, a thick sweater, and her hair in a messy knot. She wears no makeup and holds two coffee cups.
Fuck, she's gorgeous.
Not helping.
She shyly states, "Hey."
"Good morning," I say, trying to be professional.
She grins. "It's noon. Isn't it afternoon?"
"Sure." My pulse ticks up.
The air thickens, warm and electric, pulling tight between us like something alive. We stare at each other.
She holds a cup toward me. "I got you an Americano flat, two sugars."
My heart beats harder. I peer closer. "How did you know what I drink?"
"I have my ways, Dr. Mercer," she chirps.
I don't move or take the coffee.
Her face falls. "I asked Shirley before our last appointment."
"How did that come up?" I question, feeling awkward.
She shrugs. "I said I bet you drink black coffee, and she told me you prefer an Americano flat with two sugars."
"Oh."
Hurt fills her expression. She shakes the cup. "I didn't add poison to it."
I snap out of it. "Right. Sorry. Thank you." I take the cup, and our fingers brush, giving me another shot of testosterone I could do without.
Her eyes meet mine with questions.
"Come in," I offer, stepping back.
She brushes past me lightly, like she's afraid the floor might break under her, but confident enough that it won't. The faintest trace of her shampoo catches the air. It's warm and sweet, and it hits my bloodstream like a slow-burning fire.
This woman, I curse internally.
She sits gracefully. Crosses her legs. Looks up at me with a calm, unreadable expression I've never seen on her.
And my careful script, the one I spent all morning drilling into myself, wavers. I shut the door, take a seat in my chair, and feel completely off-kilter.
God help me. I shouldn't be in a room alone with her.
Blue watches me, posture straight, hands relaxed in her lap. There's no flirtation, smirk, or theatrical vulnerability. She's calm, almost unsettlingly quiet.
It throws me off immediately.
Usually, she fills the silence with words, movement, and tension. Today, she lets the silence press down on us. It's heavy, assessing, and patient, and I don't know how to handle it.
I clear my throat and force myself into the plan. I shift in my chair and start, "Blue, before we start, I need to address last night."
She nods once, expression unreadable.
Good. Maybe this will go smoothly.
I continue, keeping my tone even, clinical, anchored in what I've rehearsed.
"What happened yesterday at the restaurant and afterward crossed multiple boundaries.
I allowed a situation to escalate in a way that wasn't therapeutic.
That was my failure, not yours. And because of that, I'm going to recommend we transition your care to another clinician. "
Her eyes don't widen. Her posture doesn't flinch. She doesn't panic or argue. She asks, softly, "And you think that would help me?"
The question lands with surgical precision. I stiffen. "It's the ethical course of action."
She tilts her head slightly, studying me with a focus that makes my pulse jump. She repeats quietly, "Ethical."
"Yes."
She takes a deep breath and claims, "You've always been ethical with me, even when I tried to push or provoke you.
And I know you didn't want to give me that last night, but it stopped me from doing something bad.
So I'm not sure how ethical even matters.
Doesn't the fact that I didn't cut my clit matter more?
Doesn't it prove you're the doctor to help me? "
I freeze. My pulse tightens to little jabs.
She repeats, "Would it have been better to cut my clit?"
"God no."
"Then you did your job. You saved my clit and me in the process. Seems to me like I have an amazing doctor," she beams at me.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
"I need help, Dr. Mercer. You're the only person I trust. You can't give up on me," she says, then blinks hard, taking deep breaths.
I clear my throat. "Blue, I'm not equipped to be your therapist anymore. I compromised your treatment."
She calmly replies, "No. You compromised your comfort."
I blink, thrown.
She continues before I can respond. "If you'd compromised my treatment, I wouldn't be sitting here today. I would have shut down, spiraled, withdrawn. I would have cut my clit. I wouldn't have trusted you. But I do. I still trust you. In fact, I trust you more than anyone now."
Her voice doesn't shake. It doesn't seduce. It simply states a fact, and the weight of her words hits me harder than anything she said last night.
I lean forward slightly, despite myself. "Trust doesn't change the reality of the lines we crossed."
She exhales slowly, almost sadly. "You're talking about lines. I'm talking about what helps me stay alive without new scars on my body."
My throat tightens.