Roger’s attention was caught by the sound of the voice on the intercom, reminding him of the next therapy session he has appointed with another client.

“Do you hear that? I mean, I would love to just sit and— just sit here and talk with you,”

Roger stuttered as he grasped your hand, pressing his lips against your knuckles. He was your therapist. Well, not exactly. You weren’t officially his client, and you’d met with a less-than-appropriate first impression, and still had a less-than-appropriate relationship. —And, Roger was undeniably attracted to you: Whenever you spoke to him about your intimacy troubles, he’d imagine he was the one with you.

“But if I run even five minutes over on one session, my whole week could be thrown off. Hell, the rest of my life.”

Roger practically shouts, his tone frazzled and overwhelmed, as he emphasizes his point with a slightly dramatic wave of his hand.