Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen

I sit naked in the dining room, every nerve ending raw and screaming from a sleepless night of denied release. The same chair. The same room. The same wired, trembling mess of a body. Betraying me with each passing second as anticipation coils tight in my belly.

Footsteps echo across the hardwood floors, and I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest. Frost appears in the doorway wearing dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt, the casual attire somehow more unnerving than his usual clinical presentation.

“Good morning, Ramona,” he says, his voice neutral as he approaches. I hate how much I like the sound of my name on his lips. He’s holding a porcelain teacup on a silver tray and—I squint—a single banana on a small china saucer.

“We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?” I respond, fighting to keep my voice steady as my body reacts to his proximity.

His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. “Most people simply say good morning back.”

“Most people aren’t expected to sit at a dining table with their ass and tits hanging out for any bystander to see,” I snap, then immediately regret giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“And yet, here you are.” He sets the tray down with precision. “Exactly where I asked you to be.”

“Not like I have a choice,” I mutter, watching him arrange the teacup and saucer before me.

“You always have a choice.” His tone carries the weight of absolute certainty, before announcing, “Green tea.”