But I can't sit on the edge of her bed all night like some twisted guardian angel who also happens to be the man who kissed her.
So I debate until my back aches from the strain of the rigid position. My legs turn half numb, but my mind is nowhere near quiet. It's replaying every second of tonight on loop, focusing on the parts I need to forget about forever.
Yet all I can think of is how she trembled when my mouth touched hers. Her whimpers and whispers and clinging to my body haunt me. And the fascination of what it'd be like to givein to her obsession, and take her virginity, grows so vivid, I close my eyes and imagine her body writhing under mine.
A tiny noise escapes her lips, pulling me back to reality.
Guilt and want circle each other in my chest like they're in a cage fight, neither backing down, both landing hits.
Jesus, I'm fucked up.
There's no scenario where I should be in a sleeping patient's bedroom, on her bed, holding her hand. And definitely not one who kissed me like she knew every sordid thought running through my head and how to tap into it.
Fuck.
Her breathing deepens even further, drifting into that heavy, dreamless rhythm that means she's not half pretending anymore. She's fully under, and the room feels quieter.
Carefully, I slide my hand from hers. I watch her face for any sign of waking, and she doesn't move.
She looks much younger than twenty-five when she's sleeping.
She trusts you, idiot.
I inhale slowly.
There's no good exit, just less terrible ones.
I sit there for another full minute, watching, waiting, ready to pick her hand back up if she so much as shifts, but she doesn't. Whatever chaos overtook her the last few days has finally shut down. Her nervous system decided to override her and force the reboot she refused to give it.
Good.
She needs this.
She needs a lot more than this.
I stand like an old man, every muscle in my back and shoulders objecting. The bed creaks faintly, and my heart stops.
Blue doesn't move.
I hold my breath until I'm sure she's unconscious, then step toward the door. Halfway out, I turn back.
The lamp washes her face in soft gold. A tiny line sits between her brows, like even in sleep she's thinking.
My hand tightens around the doorframe.
What happens tomorrow?
She wakes up.
Remembers the kiss, my promise, and that I was here.
What do I say?
How do I sit across from her in my office and pretend I'm just her therapist again?
I can't give her more.
I shouldn't continue treating her, yet I'm terrified to imagine what cutting her off would do.
