Isadora stepped fully into the consult room, door clicking shut behind her with quiet finality. The two guards remained outside—visible through the narrow window in the door, shadows in black suits. She crossed the small space in three measured strides, oxfords soft on linoleum, and sank into the patient chair opposite Rowan's desk. Legs crossed at the knee, blazer falling open just enough to reveal the crisp black shirt beneath, one arm draped casually over the backrest. She looked relaxed. Almost amused.
Rowan sat straight-backed behind her desk—white coat buttoned, chart open, pen poised. She met Isadora's gaze without flinching, expression cool, professional, unreadable.
"Good morning, Ms. Ravencroft," Rowan said evenly. "This is your first outpatient session. We'll start with a standard intake: current symptoms, substance use history, any recent use, and how you're feeling today. I'll ask questions. You answer honestly. If you're not ready to be honest, we can end the session now and reschedule."
Isadora's lips curved—slow, deliberate.
"I'm ready," she said softly. "Ask away, Doctor."
Rowan nodded once—clipped, controlled—and began.
"Last documented use: cocaine and benzodiazepines, two nights ago. Any use since discharge?"
Isadora tilted her head, eyes never leaving Rowan's face.
"None," she answered. "Haven't touched anything. Not even aspirin. I've been… saving my cravings for something more interesting."
Rowan's pen paused for half a second. She didn't rise to it.
"Any withdrawal symptoms? Anxiety, tremors, insomnia, cravings?"
"Cravings," Isadora said immediately, voice dropping lower. "Intense ones. But not for powder. For something warmer. Softer. Something that makes my pulse race when I think about it." Her gaze flicked down Rowan's front—brief, blatant—then back up. "You know the kind I mean, Doc."
Rowan's jaw tightened. She kept writing.
"Rate the intensity of those cravings, 1 to 10."
Isadora leaned forward slightly—elbows on knees now, closing the distance across the desk.
"Eleven," she said. "Off the chart. Keeps me up at night. Makes me imagine things I probably shouldn't say out loud in a doctor's office." A small, wicked smile. "Unless you want me to."
Rowan set the pen down—slow, deliberate.
"Ms. Ravencroft," she said quietly, "this is a clinical session. Not a confessional. Answer the question without elaboration."
Isadora's smile widened.
"Fine. Eleven. Happy?"
Rowan ignored the tone, moved on.
"Any physical symptoms? Headaches, nausea, muscle aches, heart palpitations?"
"Heart palpitations," Isadora answered instantly. "Every time I think about last night. The way your breath hitched when I dipped you. The way your fingers curled into my blazer like you weren't sure whether to push me away or pull me closer." She paused, eyes darkening. "Still feel it, Doc? Right here?" She tapped two fingers lightly over her own chest. "Because I do."
Rowan's hand flexed on the desk—once—then stilled.
"Any sleep disturbance?" she asked, voice flat.
Isadora leaned back again, stretching her arms along the back of the chair, blazer opening wider.
"Couldn't sleep," she said. "Kept replaying it. Your body against mine. Your thighs brushing my leg. The little sound you made—barely audible—when my thumb traced your spine." Her voice dropped to a murmur. "I wondered what other sounds you make when you're not trying to hate me."
Rowan's eyes narrowed—sharp, warning.
"Focus on the question."
Isadora's gaze flicked to Rowan's mouth—lingering—then back up.
"I did," she said softly. "I focused on every second of it."
Rowan exhaled once—slow, controlled—then continued.
"Current mood? Any suicidal ideation, homicidal ideation, hallucinations?"
Isadora's smirk softened—just a fraction—into something almost… honest.
"Obsessed," she said. "Not suicidal. Not homicidal. Just… fixated. On someone who keeps pretending she doesn't feel it too." She leaned forward again. "You're asking about my health, Doc. But you're the one who's making my heart race right now. So tell me—how's *your* health? Still pretending last night didn't leave a mark?"
Rowan set the pen down completely.
"This session is about you," she said quietly. "Not me."
Isadora's eyes darkened—hungry, patient.
"For now," she murmured. "But we both know how this ends, Doctor. You'll ask questions. I'll answer. And every answer will remind you exactly why you couldn't push me away fast enough on that dance floor."
Rowan held her gaze—unblinking, unflinching.
"Then answer the next one honestly," she said. "Are you here for treatment? Or are you here for something else?"
Isadora's smile returned—slow, dangerous, triumphant.
"Both," she said softly. "And you already know which one matters more."
The room went silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning.
Rowan kept her pen moving—slow, deliberate strokes across the progress note—refusing to let Isadora see how the air in the small room had suddenly thickened, how every breath felt heavier than the last.
"Moving on," Rowan said, voice level, almost mechanical. "Any current physical symptoms related to withdrawal or substance use? Fatigue, sweating, tremors, gastrointestinal issues?"
Isadora shifted in the chair—slow, deliberate—uncrossing and recrossing her legs so the brown trousers pulled taut over her thighs. She leaned forward just enough that the open collar of her black shirt revealed the sharp line of her collarbone and the faint gold chain resting against her skin.
"Fatigue?" Isadora echoed, voice low and husky, like she was tasting the word. "Only when I try to sleep without thinking about you." Her eyes dropped—unapologetic—to Rowan's mouth for a long second before drifting lower, tracing the line of Rowan's throat, the crisp edge of her white coat where it met skin. "My heart races instead. Fast. Hard. Like it's trying to climb out of my chest and land in your hands."
Rowan's pen paused mid-word. She forced it to continue.
"Rate the severity," she said. "1 to 10."
Isadora's gaze lifted—dark, molten, locked on Rowan's eyes now.
"Ten," she answered softly. "Every time I remember how your body felt against mine last night. The way your breasts pressed into me when I dipped you. The little hitch in your breath when my thumb slid lower on your back—right here."
She lifted her own hand, fingers splaying over the small of her back in demonstration, slow, suggestive. "I keep wondering… if I'd gone lower, would you have arched into it? Or would you have finally admitted you wanted my hand elsewhere right there on the dance floor?"
Rowan's grip on the pen tightened until her knuckles blanched.
"Stay on topic," she said—voice quieter now, but steady. "Any gastrointestinal symptoms? Nausea, appetite changes?"
Isadora's smile was slow—predatory, intimate.
"Appetite?" she repeated, leaning even closer across the desk until only a few inches of wood separated them. "I'm starving, Doc. But not for food." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, intimate enough to feel like a touch. "I want to taste you. Slow. Thorough. Start at your neck—bite just hard enough to leave marks no scrubs can hide. Work my way down. Suck your nipples until they're swollen and aching. Then lower."
Rowan's breath caught—once, betrayingly—before she locked it down.
She set the pen down. Hard. The sound cracked in the silence.
"Ms. Ravencroft," she said, each word clipped, "this is inappropriate. You are here for treatment. Not to proposition your physician. If you cannot maintain boundaries, I will end this session and recommend transfer to another provider."
Isadora didn't flinch. She leaned back slowly—still smiling—eyes never leaving Rowan's face.
"You could," she murmured. "But you won't." She tilted her head, ponytail slipping over one shoulder. "Because part of you—small, angry, honest part—wants to hear what I'd do next. Wants to know how it would feel if I pushed you back on that exam table right now. Until you came so hard you saw stars and hated yourself for loving every second."
Rowan stood abruptly—chair rolling back with a sharp scrape.
"Session over," she said, voice low and shaking with restraint. "We'll reschedule. With a chaperone."
Isadora rose too—slow, graceful—closing the distance in one step until only the desk separated them.
"You can reschedule," she whispered. "You can bring in a chaperone. You can write 'inappropriate behavior' in my chart a hundred times. But tomorrow? I'll be back. And the day after. And every day after that. Until you stop pretending you don't feel it too."
She reached across the desk—slow enough Rowan could stop her—and brushed one fingertip along the edge of Rowan's white coat sleeve. Just a ghost of contact. Enough to make Rowan's skin prickle.
"Think about it tonight, Doctor," Isadora said softly. "Think about my mouth on you. My hands. My tongue. Think about how good it would feel to finally stop fighting."
She stepped back—smirk still in place, eyes burning.
Then she rounded the desk.
Rowan sat then stiffened instantly—chair rolling back an inch—but she didn't stand. Didn't retreat. She held her ground behind the desk, hazel eyes locked on Isadora's approach, jaw tight.
Isadora stopped close—too close—until the toes of her oxfords nearly touched Rowan's sensible black clogs. The desk was no longer a barrier; it was just wood between them.
"See you later, Doc," Isadora murmured.
Before Rowan could respond, Isadora leaned in—slow enough to give warning, fast enough to make it inevitable.
She pressed her lips to Rowan's cheek.
Soft. Warm. Lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Rowan inhaled sharply—shock freezing her in place.
Isadora's mouth curved against her skin in a ghost of a smile.
Then her hand moved.
Fingertips trailed down—deliberate, feather-light—from Rowan's collarbone, over the crisp edge of her white coat, down the center of her chest. Slow. Possessive. Tracing the line between Rowan's breasts through fabric, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath.
Rowan's breath hitched—loud in the quiet room.
Her hand flew up to push Isadora away.
But Isadora was already moving—slipping backward with liquid grace, fingers trailing off Rowan's chest at the last possible second.
She stepped back toward the door—eyes never leaving Rowan's face—dark, triumphant, hungry.
Rowan's hand hovered in mid-air—where Isadora had been—trembling slightly.
Isadora paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorknob.
"Tomorrow," she said softly. "Wear something under that coat I can imagine taking off."
The door opened.
Isadora stepped through—blazer sharp, stride confident—guards falling in behind her like shadows.
The door clicked shut.
Rowan remained seated—frozen—chest heaving, skin burning where those fingers had trailed.
She stared at the closed door.
Then down at her own chest—where the ghost of Isadora's touch still lingered like a brand.
Her fingers curled into fists on the desk.
She exhaled—shaky, ragged.
And whispered—barely audible, to the empty room:
"Fuck."
The session was over.
But the war?
It had just escalated.
The consult room door stayed shut for a full minute after Isadora left—long enough for the echo of her oxfords to fade down the corridor, long enough for the guards' shadows to disappear from the window.
Rowan remained seated behind her desk, hands flat on the wood, breathing shallow and deliberate, like she was trying to force her heart rate back under control.
The trail of Isadora's fingertip down her chest felt branded into her skin through the white coat and scrubs. She could still feel the exact path: collarbone to sternum, slow and deliberate, stopping just above the swell of her breast. Her nipples had tightened traitorously under the layers; her thighs had clenched without permission.
She hated it.
She hated herself more for it.
The door opened again—quiet this time, careful.
Sara slipped inside first, Emma right behind her. They closed the door softly, like they were afraid to startle her.
Rowan didn't look up at first. She stared at the closed chart, at the single line she'd managed to type after Isadora left:
Patient exhibits persistent boundary-testing behavior with sexualized verbal content. Provider maintains professional demeanor.
Her hand shook when she tried to underline it.
Sara stepped closer—slow, gentle.
"Ro…"
Rowan's shoulders tensed—slight, almost imperceptible—but enough.
Sara and Emma exchanged a glance. Emma stayed by the door; Sara moved to the side of the desk.
"Hey," Sara said softly. "Talk to us."
Rowan finally lifted her head.
Her hazel eyes were glassy—bright with unshed tears, lashes clumped at the edges. She blinked hard once, twice, trying to force them back, but one escaped anyway—sliding slow down her cheek before she could swipe it away.