"Yes. There is."
She leans back slightly, and I feel the loss of her weight immediately. "Why are you asking me all this?"
"Because I am beginning to understand that you are not simply an employee. You are someone I am choosing to see."
Her hands tremble against my skin.
"That's dangerous," she whispers.
"Probably."
She shifts her position, moving higher on my back, her knees pressing into my sides as she leans forward to reach my upper shoulder blades. Her hands find the calcified ridge near my wing joint, and she drives her knuckles into the adhesion with brutal efficiency.
There is a faint crackle. A mineral snap. The calcification breaks apart beneath her touch, and I feel the sudden release of tension, the rigid muscle softening into something warm and pliable.
I exhale slowly.
"There we go," she murmurs. "That's better."
Her hands move to my wing joint, her fingers tracing the delicate membrane where it connects to my shoulder blade. She is careful here, her touch lighter, more tentative. She knows this area is sensitive. She knows the bone spurs are sharp.
She knows I could hurt her if I moved too quickly.
But I will not.
I would never.
Her fingers press into the base of my wing, and I feel the warmth spreading through the membrane, the tension easing, the calcification dissolving under her touch.
And then she leans forward, her weight shifting, and I feel the soft press of her body against my back.
It is brief. Accidental. She is just adjusting her position, trying to get better leverage.
But for a moment, I feel the warmth of her chest against my spine, the softness of her stomach pressed against the rigid stone of my lower back.
And I stop breathing.
Because this is not clinical.
This is not professional.
This is something else entirely.
I force myself to remain still. To keep my wings folded. To keep my hands flat against the table.
I will not move.
I will not react.
I will not give in to the overwhelming, primal urge to turn over, to pull her down onto the furs, to wrap my wings around her and keep her here, safe and warm and mine.
Because she is not mine.
She is my therapist.
She is here because I am paying her.
And I will not ruin this by allowing my instincts to override my discipline.
