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.
