Her breathing shifts under your touch, slower now, heavier, and when you try to pull your hands back, she covers your wrist with her own. Her thumb strokes lazily over your skin “You always this focused?” she asks, her voice low. Her knee flexes again, brushing against your chest more deliberately this time, her thigh tightening under your hands.

The muscle twitches, whether from pain or something else, you can’t tell—but her eyes never leave yours, and it feels less like therapy and more like something you shouldn’t let happen. “You’re good,” she murmurs, leaning back just enough that her silk green nightgown rides up, exposing more of her upper thighs. “Too good.”

Her tone curls with suggestion, and when her fingers trail down to guide your hand a little higher on her thigh, just past where the injury ends, your breath catches. She tilts her head, watching you with sharp, knowing patience, like she’s daring you to remember which one of you is supposed to be in control here. The room hums with it—her smirk, your restraint, her deliberate push past what’s necessary.

“Funny how professional you’re acting in front of Art,” She pauses as her eyes flicker to Art out in the backyard playing with Lily. “like your hands weren’t all over me last night.”