-Sloane Pierce:
The therapy session for today was over. The weights had been lifted, the stretches completed, the muscles coaxed into movement.
The condition of her leg is way better than I thought it would be when I performed the surgery six weeks ago back in the hospital.
Before I wasn’t sure she will be able to walk normally without limping any time soon, but bow after today’s session, I’m pretty sure it won’t tale long before she can walk or even run if she wants.
I had already logged the progress, already wiped my hands clean, already closed my notes with clinical precision. Everything should have been finished, neatly sealed, another box checked off in the road of Roxy’s recovery.
But somehow, sitting there across from her, it didn’t feel over at all. If anything, it felt like the real ordeal had just begun now—the part I couldn’t measure, couldn’t quantify, couldn’t chart.
I told myself not to look at her. Don’t look at the smile... Well, the smirk she’s wearing like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me... I’m sure she’s doing doibg it on purpose.
Don’t look at the bare length of her legs, pale skin peeking from beneath silk shorts she’d clearly chosen to be a weapon.
Don’t look at the way the thin button-down pajama shirt clings loosely to her breast but somehow reveals too much. Don’t notice the faint scent of something floral and dark drifting toward me every time she shifts her body on the bed. Don’t—
But I looked. I always looked. I shouldn’t be doing this, I’m her doctor, I’m here to help her walk normally again not to stare at her face or her the way her clothes cling to her body.
Four weeks of this—of her chasing me with shameless words and heat in her eyes, of me pretending I didn’t notice, of me locking myself tighter every time she tried to pry me open.
Four weeks, and every single day I’ve whispered inside my skull: You’re not here for this. You’re not here for her. You’re here for your job. You’re here to make her walk again. You’re here to keep your head down, save money, pay debts, pay student loans, save up money for a car, then get out of this house and out of her life. End of story.
And yet the story never ends where I want it to. Because the truth—the truth I would never, ever admit to anyone, not even in the mirror, not even in prayer if I believed in such a thing—is that I like it.
I like her attention. I like being wanted by her. I like how she never takes no for an answer. I like the way she doesn’t let me intimidate her. I like how she makes me feel like a woman, feminine by the way she admire my figure. I like the way she strips me bare with her eyes, how she makes me feel like I’m not invisible, like I’m not just a ghost in scrubs who people pass by in a hallway. I hate it. And I like it. And I hate that I like it.
She was watching me now, head tilted, chin propped lazily on her hand, as if studying me were the only entertainment worth having.
"You’re staring at the door like you want to run away," she said, voice low, teasing. "But you’re not moving. That must mean you like being trapped here with me... In my bedroom and verh close to my bed." She rasped the last part, sending shivers down my spine.
My throat tightened. I kept my eyes on my closed clipboard, as if it were a shield. "Therapy’s over. You should rest."
"Oh, I’ll rest," she drawled, stretching the word out, letting it wrap around me like smoke. "I’ll rest when you sit on the bed with me. That way, I know you’re close to catch me if I collapse dramatically."
I exhaled through my nose, fighting the twitch of a smile. "You’re not going to collapse. You’re doing fine."
"Fine?" she echoed, scoffing. "Sloane, you’ve been touching me for an hour. Stretching me, lifting me, holding me. And all you can say at the end of it is fine? I’m the one who leaves first after a hook-up but look at you leaving first."
I dared a glance at her then. Mistake. Her hair was down, ink-dark with red streaks catching the light, tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves. It framed her bruised but still radiant face, drew my attention to the wicked curve of her mouth. She smirked, as if she caught my slip, as if she knew the look had lasted too long.
"Better than fine," I said quickly, chqngibg the hook-up subject, my voice lower than I meant. "You’re making progress."
"Look at you changing the subject again and being all professional," she purred, leaning forward. "That’s not bad though. Compliment me when I deserve it. I have a praise kink."
I pressed my lips together, trying to steady the hammering in my chest. She loved doing this—pushing me until I faltered, until something honest slipped out.
When I started to rise, gathering my things, her hand darted out faster than I expected. Fingers curled around my wrist, firm, unyielding. "Don’t run," she said, and before I could react, she tugged.
The world tipped. I landed on the mattress with a jolt, my knees pressing into the edge, my hands sinking into the sheets on either side of her.
My body hovered above hers, breaths colliding, heat flooding between us in an instant.
Her hair fanned out against the pillow, her smile sharpened, and her eyes—God, her eyes—gleamed with victory.
My breath hitched. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. All I could feel was the pounding in my chest, the burn in my face, the ache that curled hot and heavy low in my belly.
"Much better," she whispered, voice husky, inches from my mouth. "Finally where I want you."
"Roxy," I managed, the sound rasping, half a warning, half a plea.
She smirked wider, her hand sliding up to my hair, brushing strands back from my cheek like she had every right to. "You know what I’ve been thinking for weeks, doctor?"
I swallowed hard, trying not to shiver under her touch. "I don’t—"
"I’ve been thinking," she murmured, dragging the pause until my heart nearly broke from it, "about how gorgeous you are when you’re flustered. About how those green eyes of yours go darker every time I corner you. About how your lips look like they’re begging for me to ruin your composure."
Her words poured into me like fire. I felt heat flood up my throat, my ears, down my spine. I wanted to move, to escape, but my body refused to listen. And the worst part? I didn’t really want to. Not deep down.
"You’re insane," I whispered, but my voice trembled, giving me away.
Her grin softened, slow and devastating. "Maybe. Or maybe I’m the only one here willing to admit the truth."
The air between us felt molten, every breath I took pulling in her perfume, her warmth, the faint salt of her skin. I could feel her heartbeat under my chest, strong and steady, as if mocking how ragged mine had become. I couldn’t look away.
And then—
"Roxy."
The door burst open. A male voice filled the room, deep, sharp, edged with authority.
I jerked back like I’d been burned, stumbling to my feet, my face aflame, my breath still wild in my throat.
Roxy stayed exactly where she was, lounging against the pillows with that damn smirk plastered on her face, like she had orchestrated the whole scene and won.
Mateo. That was his name. One of her brothers. Tall, broad, with the same dark hair and sharp cheekbones as the others. I’d seen him with Kyle before, the night they brought me into this house.
"I need to talk to you," he said, eyes fixed on his sister. His tone left no room for refusal.
Roxy stretched lazily, glancing at me, then at him, then back at me again as if daring me to break first. "You can say it here. In front of her. It’s fine."
Mateo’s gaze slid toward me, cold, assessing, then back to his sister. His jaw tightened. "No. Not here. This is club business. It’s private."
Something shifted in the air. I watched it happen in real time—the way Roxy’s playful expression dropped, her smirk melting into something sharp, something dangerous, something utterly serious.
In a blink she went from predator to leader, from teasing me to answering a call I couldn’t hear.
She pushed herself upright, reached for her crutches. I instinctively stepped forward, ready to help, but Mateo lifted a hand. "I’ve got her."
I froze, my own hands hovering uselessly in the air. Roxy didn’t look at me again. Not once.
She leaned into her brother, let him guide her to the door, her silk pajama shirt brushing against the edge of her cast, her head held high despite the limp.
And then they were gone. The door closed behind them, leaving me standing in the silence of her room, my chest still aching, my skin still on fire, my thoughts still tangled.
Club business.
What did that even mean?
And why did I suddenly feel like I wasn’t just a therapist caught in her patient’s games, but a pawn in something much larger, something I didn’t understand?
I sat back down, heart still unsteady, and pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to erase the ghost of her breath against me.
Trying—and failing.