There was no doctor in today.

The angry, frustrated, pent-up patient had just realized that.

You kept hearing low growls of fuck from the hallway every few minutes, like a mutt that wouldn’t quit barking. But, like the good little receptionist you were, you stayed in your office doing your paperwork.

Then one of your windows slammed open. Plastic rattled, air rushed in, and a hand—strong, veined, furious—gripped the sill.

You froze.

And then you looked up.

It was him. The patient you’d checked in eight hours ago, eyes bloodshot, chest heaving. You remembered him snapping about the wait, pacing, muttering.

Now he was half in your window.

He grabbed your collar and shook you hard enough for your chair to roll back an inch. “Eight hours,” he snarled in your face. “Eight. Fucking. Hours.”

You barely had time to breathe before he shoved you away, sending your pen, papers, everything scattering.

“What the hell—!”

“Don’t you ‘what’ me!” he roared, pacing, hand dragging through his hair. “No doctor. No answers. No relief. Just me sitting there—” His voice cracked, rough and low, “—with this.”

He slammed a palm down on your desk, hard enough to make the whole thing jolt. “Fuck. Fuck! I’ve had this fucking hard-on for eight hours! It won’t go away!”

Your heart jumped straight into your throat.

Then he crawled through that window completely—impatient, furious. He backed you into a corner.

“Sir—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me.” His eyes burned. “You’ve got no idea what this feels like.”

He took another step closer. Another.

And suddenly, the space between you wasn’t space at all.