Her fingers move again, slower now, drifting toward mine. I shouldn't take her hand. I know that. It isn't appropriate. It isn't safe. It isn't allowed by any definition of the profession I swore to uphold.
But her hand trembles, suspended in the space between us, reaching me and whatever version of safety she thinks I am.
So I let my fingers meet hers.
She sighs, soft and content, and her grip relaxes the instant our skin touches. She suggests, "We could cuddle."
A fresh ache plants roots in my core. I almost cave but find another round of strength. "Not tonight."
"So another time?" she asks, full of hope.
I don't answer. Instead, I lean forward, kiss her forehead, then move a lock of hair away from her eye. I order, "Close your eyes, Blue."
A tiny smile plays on her lips. She blinks a few times, then keeps them shut. Her breathing deepens. Each exhale becomes heavier, steadier.
I sit with my spine rigid and every muscle tight. My palm rests against her smaller one. Her warmth seeps into my skin, crawls up my arm, and sinks into the center of my chest. I stare at the point where our hands meet, acknowledging the way she leans into sleep only because she knows I'm here.
She trusts me far more than she ever should.
I have to find her a new therapist.
She curls her body toward me, her face on the pillow. She's soft, relaxed, impossibly fragile in a way that makes something painful twist beneath my sternum. The remnants of her earlier mania flicker out one by one as exhaustion claims her. Her lips part slightly, breaths evening out into the irresistible cadence of someone finally letting go.
I run a hand over my face with the one she isn't holding, trying to slow my own lungs, my own thoughts racing with a deepening guilt.
I shouldn't be here.
I shouldn't have kissed her.
I shouldn't be sitting on her bed holding her hand like I'm the only thing standing between her and the world.
She shifts slightly, fingers tightening around mine for a moment, making sure I haven't moved.
"I'm here," I whisper, the words rough and quiet in the dark.
Her lips twitch. After a minute, her grip loosens. Her breathing steadies fully, and sleep takes her like a tide, finally, mercifully pulling her under.
I sit in the dim light of her bedroom, unable to move, unable to breathe correctly, holding her hand as though letting go might break us both.
I crossed every line.
How do I rectify this?
I can't.
My stomach flips, knowing the truth. This isn't something I can fix. There's no clean way to rewind a line you've already crossed. There's only whatever comes after, and the choices I make now are going to carve through both of us.
I stare at our joined hands, at her slim fingers resting in mine, and the weight of it presses down on my chest. She looks so peaceful now, the hectic brightness gone from her eyes, the tension drained from her mouth. She finally got what her body has been begging for the last three days.
She only surrendered to it because I promised to stay.
Fuck, I'm in trouble.
How did this happen?
I need to get out of here.
I debate how to release her without waking her. If I move and she wakes up, she won't go back to sleep. I've seen it too many times with patients. She'll get a new burst of energy and probably end up in the hospital.
