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."
