Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Red
All night, I drift in and out of something that feels more like drowning than rest. Waves of Blue's voice drag me under.
Flashes of her eyes pierce through every boundary I try to resurrect, the echo of her saying text me an appointment time or text me goodbye shredding whatever is left of my resolve.
When my alarm buzzes, my heart slams hard enough that my ribs ache. I sit up, grab my phone from the nightstand, and before I can think better of it, I look at my phone.
There's a message from her. My hairs rise on my arms. I open the notification.
Blue: Good morning, Dr. Mercer. I wanted to check in. I'm safe today. Thank you for our honest conversation yesterday.
Relief hits me, taking me by surprise. It's another inappropriate response I shouldn't have, yet it soothes something raw inside me. I re-read it several times, focusing on, I'm safe today. Thank you again for our honest conversation yesterday.
My thumb lingers over the screen longer than it should.
The steadiness of her words burrows into me, loosening a knot in my chest. I search for something manipulative or seductive, but it's strikingly appropriate.
And for a woman like Blue, who deals with obsessive behavior, I understand the restraint it's taking her to not harass me.
She's trying for me.
I drag my hand down my face and push myself off the bed, feeling the weight of what I already know has settled like concrete on my shoulders.
I can't say goodbye to her. I knew it when she walked out of my office with that quiet devastation in her eyes.
The moment she told me I was the only one she trusted, I was doomed to forgo ethics.
And when she walked away, the thought of never seeing her again made my chest feel like it was cracking.
Reading her message in the glow of the morning, seeing how hard she's trying, it's undeniable. I don't want to lose Blue, which puts me in a really bad spot.
The shame lands deep and heavy. I stare at her message once more, then walk to the kitchen, set my phone down, and brace my hands on the counter. The sunlight hits the sink, glinting off the steel, and I stare at my own distorted reflection.
I scold, "You're her therapist.'
The words sound thin, useless.
I add, "You owe her ethics. Boundaries. Safety."
Silence answers me.
I combat it with an excuse mixed with truth. I owe her consistency. If I let her go now, everything she's opened up about will fracture. I know it clinically and intuitively.
Sending her to a stranger now would shatter her.
But that isn't why my chest hurts when I imagine terminating my role as her therapist. It hurts because I don't want to let her go.
The more I see her, the more I realize there's a part of me that's dark, human, and guilty.
It wants to keep her for reasons that have nothing to do with her well-being.
I close my eyes, hating the truth. It makes me unfit, compromised, and dangerous for her. Yet I can't stop the darkness prying to life inside me.
I close my eyes, gripping the edge of the countertop until my knuckles burn. I should walk away. It's what the ethical guidelines say. It's what my training drilled into me. It's what every supervisor I've ever had would order me to do.
So why can't I?
She won't go to therapy with anyone else.
Liar. I'll find a way to make her go.
The thought of Blue sitting in someone else's office, breaking open her trauma, exposing her secrets, letting another man hear the things she told me, makes something violent twist in my gut.
The truth hits me harder, and I wince.
I could get her a female therapist.
No. She's mine to help.
The realization steals my breath.
I pick up my phone and lie to her.
Me: Thank you for checking in, Blue. I'm…still thinking.
I send the message. Then I sink onto a stool, press my elbows into my knees, and rest my head in my hands as stark realities I've been resisting claw their way to the surface.
I care too much for her, more than I'm supposed to or is allowed for anyone in my profession.
But she trusts me and chose me. Despite every wrong turn we took, every line smudged beyond recognition, and all the parts of me that know better, I'm choosing her too.
Only now, I don't know if it's for her safety or my downfall. I can't tell the difference anymore.
My phone buzzes from the counter. The sound ricochets through the kitchen like a command, and I stand before I can second-guess it.
No new message. It's just a calendar alert. But the empty screen solidifies the panic growing in my chest.
If I don't give her an answer soon, she'll think the silence means goodbye. She'll spiral and hurt herself trying to prove a point, believing I abandoned her like Brax.
He never got as far with her as I did.
Jesus. What am I saying?
I came with her over the phone. He never did.
It was inappropriate, asshole.
Smug satisfaction overpowers me, taking me by surprise. I open the LinkedIn private message box, look at the photo Blue sent me of Brax and his wife, and compare him to me.
I'm five years older than him, but I think I've aged well. He's got more muscle, but there's a roughness about him, and I assume he's a fighter. My physique is leaner, and I stand no chance in a back alley with a man like Brax.
She still chose me.
"Jesus Christ, what am I saying?" I mutter, knowing that this is all insane. Still, I unlock my phone with a shaking thumb.
My therapist brain screams at me to think it through, pause, consult, reflect, and disengage. Yet my heart, my body, and my guilt ignore the rationale for what I should do. I open our message thread.
Her last words glow softly on the screen:
I'm safe today. Thank you for our honest conversation yesterday.
My pulse screams between my ears. I take deep breaths, then type the message that seals my guilt, my desire, my failure, and my choice.
Me: Can you come in on Wednesday at 6? We should continue working through yesterday.
My thumb hovers for one last second of sanity.
Don't do this.
You're crossing a line you can't uncross.
You're giving her hope you're not supposed to give.
You're keeping her for the wrong reasons.
I ignore it all and hit send. The moment the message leaves, a surge of panic grips my ribs. I drop my phone onto the counter and stumble back like I've been physically hit.
I drag a shaking hand through my hair. "What the hell am I doing?"
I'm choosing her.
And I don't know how to stop.
Regret and relief crash into me as I stare at the message. I shouldn't have sent it. I know I shouldn't have. But the alternative, saying goodbye, felt like suffocation.
I pace my kitchen when the phone vibrates. I grab my phone. Her name flashes across the screen.
Blue: Yes. I can do Wednesday at 6.
My heart punches upward against my ribs. I swallow hard. She sends another one.
Blue: I thought your last sessions were always at 4?
I freeze. Of course she'd notice and already have tracked my schedule in that quiet, unnerving way she tracks everything about anyone she obsesses about.
Why do I like it?
I type slowly, carefully.
Me: I'm fitting you into my schedule.
Three seconds pass. Her reply hits with the precision of a well-aimed dart.
Blue: That sounds like you didn't want to wait another week to see me.
My jaw tightens. Heat crawls up the back of my neck before I can stop it.
Don't flirt with her. Shut it down immediately.
My grip on the phone tightens.
Me: I'm adjusting your care plan based on clinical necessity.
Her response arrives almost before the bubble finishes sending.
Blue: Clinical necessity? Is that what we're calling it now?
I exhale sharply and sit on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward as if it'll steady me. She always does this, pressing just enough to make me feel the edge of something dangerous, then softens it with a tone that makes backing away feel impossible.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I should tell her boundaries are necessary and remind her that yesterday was a rupture. I should correct her tone. But what I write instead comes from a place I don't want to analyze too closely.
Me: We have work to do, Blue. I'm prioritizing it.
The typing dots appear instantly.
Disappear.
Reappear.
It's absurd how my pulse reacts to those three blinking ellipses.
Blue: You're prioritizing me?
It's amazing how one single sentence can land a hook in my ribs. I run a hand over my jaw, trying to steady my voice even though I'm only speaking through text.
Me: I prioritize my patients when the situation requires it.
Blue: But you're not doing this for any other patient. Just me. Right?
My cock twitches. I groan.
Goddammit.
I inhale slowly, pressing my fingers against my brow. She's too perceptive, and the part of me that should brace for manipulation instead feels stripped bare and cornered. It's dangerously intimate, and all my warning bells ring louder.
Me: Yes.
Three dots.
A beat.
A pulse of tension that knots low in my chest.
Blue: Good. I don't like competition.
Before I know it, I'm responding.
Me: I don't either.
An audio message comes through. Her raspy voice fills my kitchen, full of innuendo. "You're my only therapist, Dr. Mercer."
I groan again, replaying it and feeling a sense of victory in the way she says my name.
Stop.
I need to stop this.
I straighten, force oxygen into my lungs, and type.
Me: I'll see you on Wednesday.
Silence that makes my nerves spark lasts too long.
Why isn't she responding?
I stare at the thread until another voice clip pops up.
"Thank you for not giving up on me, Dr. Mercer." She takes a dramatic inhale and exhale.
I almost cum in my pants. My spine stiffens. I freak out again.
I need to help her.
Me: Let's keep things clear going into Wednesday. When you come in, we'll establish stronger boundaries.
Her reply arrives fast enough to feel like a breath against my throat.