Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Two Hundred and Twenty-Eight

The warm water laps against my skin, a soothing contrast to the way my mind feels—fractured, slipping between reality and the sub-high that still lingers in my bones. The bathtub in my designated en-suite is wide enough to fit us both, and this time, he joins me. Not just standing nearby or overseeing my descent into relaxation, but lowering himself into the steaming water, his body opposite mine.

He drops two more bath bombs into the water, watching as they dissolve, fizzing in delicate swirls around our bodies. The scent of lavender and something faintly musky—like sandalwood—fills the air, wrapping around me like a cocoon.

For a long time, neither of us speak. We just exist in the stillness of the water, steam curling between us. His eyes are softer somehow, or maybe it’s the way the diffused light catches in them, making them look less severe. But I don’t let my mind go there. It’s a trick of the sub-high. A side effect. Nothing more.

I stare at the space between us, at the rippling water, at my knees just breaking the surface. Feel the weight of the previous hours. And I can’t tell if I feel lighter or heavier. His legs are longer, his body a solid presence even as he reclines against the back of the tub, watching me.

“I don’t want to black out,” I murmur suddenly, my voice thick with exhaustion. “Not again.”

He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he lifts my legs, guiding them to rest over his shoulders. The stretch feels vulnerable, but the angle keeps me conscious, my blood flowing better. I don’t fight it. I just watch him, and he watches me.

Time moves differently in the water. Slow. Lingering. Heavy.

At some point, I really look at him. Not just the sharp angles of his face, the dark slash of his brows, but something deeper. Something almost boyish beneath the intensity. A brief flicker of something unguarded before the mask slips back into place. The moment is gone before I can grasp it, but it stays with me.

The water cools, losing its heat, and he gets out first.

When I move to follow, he’s already there, his arms locking around me, lifting me out effortlessly. I jerk in protest, the sharp press of his chest against mine making my breath hitch.

“I can stand,” I argue, wriggling against him, but he doesn’t listen.

I hate how much I like the way he carries me. The strength, the security. I feel myself drowning in it, in the way his hands grip me—not like something breakable, but something that belongs to him. And I hate that. I hate that I wish I could feel this way again after next weekend. But I won’t. Because he isn’t mine. And I’m not his.