26. Cormac
Cormac
The clinic smells the same. Sterile, antiseptic, and faintly of something sweet they must clean with daily to keep it from smelling too clinical.
I move fast, purposefully, keeping my coat tight, my hands in my pockets.
I do not glance at her apartment number on the schedule.
I do not imagine her there, alone, still trembling, still feeling what I made her feel.
I’ve arranged it already: Dr. Walsh will handle routine monitoring for the week.
That was my first decision. No unscheduled visits.
No excuses. She’ll get checked, yes, but I will not be there.
I will not witness her lingering gaze when the nurse leaves.
I will not hear the quiet murmur of her voice asking if I’m coming back.
I should feel guilt. Professional ethics violation. Power imbalance exploited. Abuse of authority. Every facet of my training is screaming at me. Every principle of every medical code I’ve memorized flashes at me in neon warnings.
But I do not feel guilt. Instead, I feel something worse.
Satisfaction. Possession. Proof. She responded to me.
She chose me. Against all reason, all caution, she chose me.
She came. She gave herself in exactly the way I knew she would if the space, the moment, the inevitability aligned. And it did.
The waiting room is quiet. I pass nurses, staff, familiar faces, their greetings sliding over me unnoticed. I move with the same precision that has guided me through every consultation, every patient, every program decision for the last fifteen years.
“Dr. Brennan.”
The voice comes from the hallway where Walsh is sorting charts. She looks up sharply, papers in hand. There’s a crease between her brows that hasn’t been there in months. She knows something. The tilt of her head says she knows more than I intend to admit.
“Yes.” I keep walking. My response is clipped, controlled. I have nothing for her.
“You’re avoiding her,” Walsh says, stepping closer, voice low enough that the nurses nearby do not hear. “Elena is asking for you.”
I pause, and my hands tighten in my pockets. “Walsh,” I say evenly, measured. “You can handle routine monitoring.”
She doesn’t step back. Just tilts her head, studying me like I’m a patient for a change. “Cormac,” she says. And the tone—flat, steady, not accusatory yet heavy with warning—catches in my chest. “What happened?”
I keep my voice calm, neutral, clipped. “Nothing program-related.”
“Nothing program-related?” Walsh’s incredulity is sharp, slicing through the professional calm I’ve carefully maintained.
“Cormac, this… this is exactly why we built the arrangement. Fifteen years. Fifteen years you’ve built this program to function predictably, safely, within strict parameters, and you risk undoing everything for something that may not last.”
I step closer to her, lowering my voice, controlled, authoritative. “It will last.”
Walsh exhales sharply, like she’s trying to force me to see reason. “You can’t know that. You can’t. You’ve broken every ethical boundary, every rule you’ve spent years constructing. One night, one lapse, and…” She lets the words trail off. “…the entire foundation could crumble.”
I watch her, my expression calm, unflinching, eyes narrowing slightly.
“It won’t crumble,” I say, my voice slow, deliberate, resolute.
“She’s carrying my child. She lives in my housing.
She depends on my care. And now…” I pause, letting the weight of it land.
“…she’s mine in every practical way. The arrangement made it inevitable. One night made it undeniable.”
Walsh blinks, then takes a step back. The weight of my certainty presses against her even if she won’t say it aloud. She knows I mean it. She knows I won’t—I can’t—apologize for it.
“You… Cormac,” she says finally, voice tight. “You’ve crossed a line no one should cross. And you justify it with the program, the child, the arrangement.”
I don’t respond; I don’t need to. Words are unnecessary when certainty is enough.
I have made the decision, taken the action, and acknowledged every consequence.
I know the ethics, the professional violations, the potential scandal.
And I also know, without a shred of doubt, that none of it changes what she is to me. What I am to her.
“Do not destroy it,” Walsh continues, her voice soft but insistent, leaning closer. “You’ve built this program from nothing, meticulously, for fifteen years. Don’t undo it for something that might not endure.”
“It will endure,” I reply. This time my tone has steel woven through it, unassailable. “Because I know it. She knows it. And more than that, she chose me.”
Walsh shakes her head, frustrated, but the edges of her expression tell me she recognizes, if not agrees, that I’m beyond persuasion. “Cormac, you’re playing with fire. One misstep?—”
“I am aware,” I cut her off, precise, unwavering. “And I accept it.”
There’s a pause. I let her see me let her understand the gravity of it, let the unspoken acknowledgment hang between us: I know exactly what I’ve done, exactly what I risk, and I would do it again.
She steps back, clutching the charts to her chest. “Just don’t lose sight of what you’ve built. Don’t let desire…” She stops himself. “Don’t let yourself destroy it.”
I watch her turn back to her work, silent, and I let a small, private smirk curl at the corner of my mouth. Desire has not destroyed it. Desire has confirmed it. Elena responded. She chose.
I move to the window, hands clasped behind my back, gaze settling on the Dublin streets below.
I think of her in the apartment, the way she looked at me after that first night.
The flush of shame, the flare of want, the tremor of surrender that still lingers in my memory.
She is mine. I built the circumstances, I controlled the terms, and now nothing can undo the truth of it.
But the satisfaction doesn’t mean relief. It doesn’t absolve anything.
I turn away from the window, straighten my jacket, and resume my walk through the clinic. Nurses nod politely, staff pass with smiles that don’t reach their eyes, and I move past all of it with the confidence of someone who knows the world bends to the edges they’ve defined.
I do not call her. I do not check on her. That is not my role right now. Dr. Walsh handles the routine now. My presence is unnecessary, unwelcome even. My absence is a tool. My control extends even when I am unseen.
And I will not apologize.
Because she is mine. She always has been. The program, the apartment, the care, the rules… they’ve made it inevitable. One night merely made it undeniable.
And as I leave the clinic for the day, briefcase in hand, my mind traces the curve of her belly, the brush of her skin against mine, the heat and chaos of our own making. I allow myself a small, private acknowledgment.
Everything just got irrevocably, deliciously, set in place.