Chapter 14 #2
I shouldn't have kissed her.
I shouldn't be sitting on her bed holding her hand like I'm the only thing standing between her and the world.
She shifts slightly, fingers tightening around mine for a moment, making sure I haven't moved.
"I'm here," I whisper, the words rough and quiet in the dark.
Her lips twitch. After a minute, her grip loosens. Her breathing steadies fully, and sleep takes her like a tide, finally, mercifully pulling her under.
I sit in the dim light of her bedroom, unable to move, unable to breathe correctly, holding her hand as though letting go might break us both.
I crossed every line.
How do I rectify this?
I can't.
My stomach flips, knowing the truth. This isn't something I can fix. There's no clean way to rewind a line you've already crossed. There's only whatever comes after, and the choices I make now are going to carve through both of us.
I stare at our joined hands, at her slim fingers resting in mine, and the weight of it presses down on my chest. She looks so peaceful now, the hectic brightness gone from her eyes, the tension drained from her mouth. She finally got what her body has been begging for the last three days.
She only surrendered to it because I promised to stay.
Fuck, I'm in trouble.
How did this happen?
I need to get out of here.
I debate how to release her without waking her. If I move and she wakes up, she won't go back to sleep. I've seen it too many times with patients. She'll get a new burst of energy and probably end up in the hospital.
But I can't sit on the edge of her bed all night like some twisted guardian angel who also happens to be the man who kissed her.
So I debate until my back aches from the strain of the rigid position. My legs turn half numb, but my mind is nowhere near quiet. It's replaying every second of tonight on loop, focusing on the parts I need to forget about forever.
Yet all I can think of is how she trembled when my mouth touched hers. Her whimpers and whispers and clinging to my body haunt me. And the fascination of what it'd be like to give in to her obsession, and take her virginity, grows so vivid, I close my eyes and imagine her body writhing under mine.
A tiny noise escapes her lips, pulling me back to reality.
Guilt and want circle each other in my chest like they're in a cage fight, neither backing down, both landing hits.
Jesus, I'm fucked up.
There's no scenario where I should be in a sleeping patient's bedroom, on her bed, holding her hand. And definitely not one who kissed me like she knew every sordid thought running through my head and how to tap into it.
Fuck.
Her breathing deepens even further, drifting into that heavy, dreamless rhythm that means she's not half pretending anymore. She's fully under, and the room feels quieter.
Carefully, I slide my hand from hers. I watch her face for any sign of waking, and she doesn't move.
She looks much younger than twenty-five when she's sleeping.
She trusts you, idiot.
I inhale slowly.
There's no good exit, just less terrible ones.
I sit there for another full minute, watching, waiting, ready to pick her hand back up if she so much as shifts, but she doesn't. Whatever chaos overtook her the last few days has finally shut down. Her nervous system decided to override her and force the reboot she refused to give it.
Good.
She needs this.
She needs a lot more than this.
I stand like an old man, every muscle in my back and shoulders objecting. The bed creaks faintly, and my heart stops.
Blue doesn't move.
I hold my breath until I'm sure she's unconscious, then step toward the door. Halfway out, I turn back.
The lamp washes her face in soft gold. A tiny line sits between her brows, like even in sleep she's thinking.
My hand tightens around the doorframe.
What happens tomorrow?
She wakes up.
Remembers the kiss, my promise, and that I was here.
What do I say?
How do I sit across from her in my office and pretend I'm just her therapist again?
I can't give her more.
I shouldn't continue treating her, yet I'm terrified to imagine what cutting her off would do.
I step into the hall and pull the door halfway closed, leaving it cracked so the light can fall into the room. It feels wrong to shut her in completely.
The rest of the apartment feels smaller without her in it, as if all the gravity is in the bedroom and everything else is just orbit.
I move through the space on autopilot, passing the kitchen where an abandoned bowl sits in the sink, proof she ate and that I pushed her to do something good for herself.
I should have stopped there.
I rub a hand over my jaw, pacing the narrow length of her living room, back and forth, like a caged animal. My brain splits into competing arguments.
I have to terminate her treatment.
I can't dump her right now. She'll implode.
I have to disclose this to a colleague.
And say what? That I kissed my patient in her apartment after walking her home and then sat on her bed until she fell asleep? Great plan.
I'll lose my license.
I deserve to.
I move to the window and stare out at the street. A few cars pass. A couple walks by, and everything represents normal life. Nobody out there has any idea what kind of ethical nightmare I just built with my own hands.
What is the most pressing priority?
Getting her stable so she doesn't hurt herself and keeping her from spinning back into a manic state.
I know what the right thing would be if this were any other patient, but the rules don't seem to apply to Blue.
I should have no further contact with her other than what's necessary to keep her safe while she transitions to someone else.
Fuck!
I glance at the bedroom door again, knowing I can't leave without an explanation. She'll freak out, and who knows what she'll do. But I can't stay.
I find a pad on the counter near the fridge, the kind with a magnetic strip and a faded grocery list half started. I grab a pen and write her a note, keeping it simple.
Blue,
You finally got some sleep. That matters more than anything right now.
I stayed until you were out. I'm going home to get a few hours myself, but I'll still be here for our next session. We'll talk then about how to keep you safe and stable going forward.
Eat breakfast when you wake up and drink some water. No caffeine today.
– Red
I stare at the final line. It feels stark and incomplete, way too clinical for what just happened.
I almost scratch my name out and replace it with "Dr. Mercer," but the thought of her seeing that formality after everything tonight, makes something in me recoil, so I leave it.
I place the note on her nightstand, angling it so she'll see it as soon as she turns her head. For a second, my fingers linger on the paper.
This is all I can give her tonight.
I straighten, forcing myself to look at her one last time. I tell myself I'm memorizing her as a warning, not a fantasy. Then I back away, leaving the door slightly open.
Tomorrow, I'll have to be her doctor again. I'll sit in my chair, ask measured questions, and pretend my body doesn't remember the way she shuddered under my hands. I'll figure out how to protect her without lying about who I was tonight.
I'm an irresponsible, ethically challenged therapist.
Hatred fills me.
As I finally start toward the stairs, the only thing I know with absolute certainty is that nothing about my work will ever be normal again.