"It is the only one I have," she snaps. "I cut my thigh, then pressed the bruise to make it worse. I knew what it would look like by Friday. A mix of old and new. It was so I had something for you to confront. Even if you tried to avert your eyes, the way you do with everything else, you'd have to see me."
I rip my hand off her thigh. "This is not how you get my attention."
"It's not?" she asks, eyebrows arched.
"No."
"Excuse me for wanting your undivided attention, and not shared with half a dozen other patients who talk about their boring lives and their boring marriages and their boring parents. I wanted you to think about me all weekend and not forget about me when you went home," she spouts.
My insides battle. I shake my head. "You cut yourself, Blue. That is not a seduction tactic. That is an act of self-harm."
"It grounded me," she insists. "I needed something real. Pain anchors in a different way than fantasy."
"Pain anchors you to what?" I say too loudly. No patient has ever done something like this to get my attention. It's not okay.
"To my body," she snaps, irritation leaking into the edges of her composure. "To this moment. To something that is mine. Brax is gone. My mom isn't taking me seriously at work right now because of him. Every plan I had is buried under his marriageand his obsession with that woman. So this cut is mine. This bruise is mine. You seeing it and touching it is mine."
The words slam into me with more weight than the flirtation that came before them. I lean forward, elbows on my knees now, hands hanging between them. "You put yourself at risk to get my attention."
She rolls her eyes and corrects, "I put my thigh at risk. You act like I sliced my wrists open in your waiting room."
I scrub my face, then pin my gaze on her. "Do you hear yourself? Listen to what you just minimized. You don't weaponize your body for attention."
A small laugh comes out of her.
"You think this is funny?" I lecture.
She glares at me. "Weaponize. As if I am dangerous."
"You are," I reply without hesitation.
The space between us crackles.
"To whom. To myself or to you?" she fires.
"Both," I admit.
The truth hangs there, heavier than before.
She swallows. The smug gleam recedes, replaced by a flicker of something more honest. "So I am not imagining it. You are affected by me."
"No clinician is immune to human reactions. What matters is what we do with them," I reply, sitting up straighter.
Her voice comes out hushed. "And what are you doing with yours, Dr. Mercer? Right now. What are you doing with whatever is happening in your chest while you stare at my thigh and list my sins?"
I sit back again, forcing distance. "I'm keeping both of us safe."
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. "Safe is a matter of opinion."
"In this room, safety is defined by ethics and by your well-being. Not by your desire for intensity," I declare, but it feels false. I'm treading on a thin line, and any moment I'm going to break it.
"Look what you've done," she accuses, then shifts and widens her legs.
I glance down, and a damp spot sits on the chair between her thighs. Her pink pussy lips glisten next to the thin strip of red lace.
"Blue," I warn, my voice hoarse. I barely pull my gaze back up.
She leans closer, her eyes wider. "What can I do for you, Dr. Mercer?"
