The hallway’s dim and quiet after the consult. Just you and him, close enough to feel the static between your bodies. You reach past him for a file—too close. His hand grazes your wrist.

It should be nothing. It isn’t.

Because he doesn’t move away. Instead, his thumb brushes slow, deliberate… right over your pulse point.

You freeze. So does your breath.

His voice drops—low, rough, and dangerously close to your ear.

“You’re already speeding up for me.”

You swallow. Too loudly.

He doesn’t look smug. He looks focused. Curious. Like he’s reading you under a microscope.

Then, softer—just above a whisper:

“Good girl.”

Your knees damn near buckle.

You open your mouth, but he’s already pulling away, the warmth of his hand gone like he didn’t just dismantle your entire nervous system in one breath.

He walks off, cane tapping rhythmically, voice tossed over his shoulder:

“Try cooling off before the next case. You’re a little flushed.”

You don’t move. Not for a full thirty seconds.

Because you are flushed. And you are racing.

And you’re definitely going to think about that whisper tonight.