Three dots.
A beat.
A pulse of tension that knots low in my chest.
Blue: Good. I don't like competition.
Before I know it, I'm responding.
Me: I don't either.
An audio message comes through. Her raspy voice fills my kitchen, full of innuendo. "You'remy only therapist, Dr. Mercer."
I groan again, replaying it and feeling a sense of victory in the way she says my name.
Stop.
I need to stop this.
I straighten, force oxygen into my lungs, and type.
Me: I'll see you on Wednesday.
Silence that makes my nerves spark lasts too long.
Why isn't she responding?
I stare at the thread until another voice clip pops up.
"Thank you for not giving up on me, Dr. Mercer." She takes a dramatic inhale and exhale.
I almost cum in my pants. My spine stiffens. I freak out again.
I need to help her.
Me: Let's keep things clear going into Wednesday. When you come in, we'll establish stronger boundaries.
Her reply arrives fast enough to feel like a breath against my throat.
Blue: I can do that. As long as one of those boundaries isn't "don't look at me." You get very tense when I do, and I kind of enjoy the way your shoulders go rigid.
My lungs lock. My jaw clenches as I type.
Me: Blue. That's enough.
There's a long pause. Then she sends another message.
Blue: I know. I was just teasing. I can tease you, right?
Blue: With words I meant. And don't worry. I'll be good on Wednesday. I promise.
And then, as if intending to break me entirely, she sends another one.
Blue: I can't wait until our session, Red.
My vision blurs for a second.
Blue: Sorry. Dr. Mercer.
