You don’t know what you expected the office to look like, but you didn’t imagine the walls to be painted in soft blues, almost like ocean waves, or for there to be a chic turquoise leather couch with shaggy, overstuffed throw pillows laid carefully at each end. You could never have imagined the bright cyan armchairs with two eyeball buttons sewn against their backs, and you certainly couldn’t have imagined what looks suspiciously like female genitalia paintings in glitter frames on the walls.

Considering the doctor specializes in pelvic floor dysfunction, you guess you shouldn’t be surprised. Besides, they’re very tasteful.

You decide that despite the silly décor— or maybe because of it— the office is designed to put you at ease; and you suppose that if it weren’t for the pamphlets advertising various lubes and dilators, grief support groups, and stress management techniques, you’d be very relaxed.

You can’t help but be a little tense. The doctor is a man, which you hadn’t discovered until you’d called to make the appointment, and you were so startled by the information— and by the extremely peppy receptionist on the other end of the line—you’d gone along and scheduled your consultation when she’d started listing out available dates.

So here you are, a clipboard balancing on your knees as you painstakingly go through the intake forms, which are much more detailed than you’re used to filling out, including several questions about pregnancy and childbirth, sexual concerns, and mental health questions such as do you have a history of PTSD?

Your pen hovers over the little checkbox next to yes, but you end up marking the no box instead.

If you did, you’d never been diagnosed.

You pause at the line that asks for a brief summary about why you’re there, tapping the end of the pen lightly against the page.

It was a mix of things, none of which seemed terribly significant when you list them out; it was the long-term effects, and the duration you had endured them, that you were worried about.

You decide to go with “tight pelvic floor muscles.” It’s easier to explain in person than on paper, though the thought of telling this to a male doctor has your anxiety spiking.

You wish you’d remembered to stuff your squeezy shark, Bruce, into your bag before leaving the house, then you’d be able to take your stress out on him rather than obnoxiously tapping the pen on the clipboard like you were at a drum audition.

At least there’s no one else in the waiting room.

“OH SHI-zz,” you startle at the receptionist’s outburst, and she smacks herself so hard in the forehead you hear her mutter a little owie before she pipes up again, “I totally forgot to ask, would you like anything to drink? Water? Coffee? We even have that frou-frou carbonated stuff if you want something fancy.” She waggles her fingers on the word fancy.

The girl is downright precious, her elbows braced on the reception counter as she looks at you eagerly, vibrating with the energy of an overexcited chihuahua. Her shoulder length hair is dyed a screaming magenta that clashes horribly with her neon green cardigan, her long purple acrylic nails have bats in top hats painted on them, and her gold septum ring is adorned with a little snake.

Before you can answer her, the door to the back opens and a tall man in a crisp white button down and ironed khakis steps out, greeting his receptionist with a small wave and a “hey, Melanie,” and you think he must be another patient, but then he’s stopping in front of you and oh, no he’s the doctor?

He’s easily the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, all golden skin, wavy brown hair, and deep, dark eyes you’re already getting lost in.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Pike,” he says with an easy smile, extending a hand to you as you get up to greet him. His hand is huge, dwarfing your fingers in his firm grip.

He releases you and claps you lightly on the shoulder, jerking his head towards the door he just came out of. “Come on back.”

As you pass through the doorway, your eyes catch on the unique light switch cover…in the shape of a vulva. You snort a laugh and the tension in your shoulders eases the tiniest bit.

Dr. Pike walks you down the hall, past a few rooms with various exercise equipment and what looks like a meditation room, before stopping and gesturing into a brightly lit office.

He starts to close the door behind you but pauses and asks, “Would you be more comfortable with the door open or closed?”

The question is so sincere and considerate, you feel emotion well in your chest and the beginnings of tears pricking at your eyeline.

Oh, wow. Really? Can you not keep it together for 5 minutes?

You hope your voice doesn’t come out too strained when you reply, “I’m ok with it closed.”

You give him what you think is a convincing smile and he takes a moment to study you, starting from your shoes all the way up to the top of your head. From most men this would feel predatory, invasive even— but when he does it, it’s entirely clinical, an assessment from a professional.

He purses his lips in thought before nodding to himself and pulling the door mostly closed, leaving about a half foot of space. He bends down and flicks on a little machine that fills the room with white noise.

When he stands back to his full height, he smiles gently and motions to the padded table for you to sit down.

“I can take that from you, if you’re finished,” he inclines his head towards your clipboard as he lowers himself onto a stool across from you, leaning back against the counter lining the wall.

“Oh! Right, yeah, I’m all done,” you trip over your words as you hand it to him, your internal scolding increasing in volume at your awkwardness.

Ridiculous.

Dr. Pike scans the forms, and you take the opportunity to look around the room. There’s a chair in the far corner against the wall, next to a poster of deep breathing exercises and a few other charts you can’t quite see.

A black file cabinet that comes up to your chest is pushed into the corner, with a small stereo placed on top— the kind that takes CDs, you note with a small smile when you spy the small stack of discs placed haphazardly beside it.

Above the counter are cabinets decorated with flower stickers, and the surface of the counter is strewn with various medical supplies, as well as a crumpled bit of fabric that looks like it might be Dr. Pike’s discarded tie.

Cute.

You squint under the harsh fluorescent lights that all doctors’ offices and schools seem to be required by law to have. The big window on the far wall let’s in enough light that it’s not really necessary for them to be on, and just as the thought crosses your mind, the overhead lights switch off.

“Sorry, force of habit to turn these on in the mornings. I can’t stand them either, always give me a headache,” he says with a sympathetic grimace.

“Me too,” you murmur, and there’s that feeling again, a nearly overwhelming surge of emotion creeping up your throat and making it hard to swallow.

You’re not used to people noticing when you’re uncomfortable.

He gives you a reassuring smile and sets the clipboard aside on the counter before leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. The change in position makes his shirt strain against his broad shoulders, and you need to take a second to remember how to breathe as you watch the muscles tense and shift beneath the thin fabric.

“So…tight pelvic floor. Could you tell me a little bit more about that?” He asks with a tilt of his head, his soft brown eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that makes you look down at your hands.

“I know it sounds silly, I-I don’t have a formal diagnosis or anything— “

“That’s ok,” he cuts you off gently before you can work yourself up. “Right now I have you down as having a pelvic floor dysfunction. Nice and broad category. We can figure out the specifics together as we go.”

The smile he gives you is so warm and comforting, you feel your shoulders start to lower from where they’d risen to your ears in unconscious defense.

“Here, give me your hand for a second,” he reaches out his hand slowly like an offering to a suspicious cat to sniff, and you don’t think twice about laying your palm against his.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, smoothing the pads of his fingers up and down your palm a few times before settling at the webbing between your thumb and forefinger and pressing down firmly.

“There’s a point here, called the Union Valley point, that can sometimes help to relieve anxiety— “

“That never works for me,” you blurt out, and he blinks at you owlishly before recovering that easy smile.

You mentally berate yourself, he’s a doctor for fuck’s sake, he probably knows a trick to make it work better than you do!

“No problem, it doesn’t work for everyone. Thank you for telling me.”

He lets go of your hand and swivels his stool away from you to open one of the cabinets above the counter, pulling a bright floral box down from a shelf.

He rifles through it for a moment, stirring its contents furiously in his search, before he pulls out what he was looking for with a little “found it!” and a triumphant smile.

He’s so damn cute it’s hard not to grin right back at him.

“How do you feel about lavender?” he asks earnestly, holding the little bag aloft.

“It’s one of my favorite scents,” you say around a laugh, “why?”

He passes you the bundle and the smile eases off his face into something more serious.

“Health concerns are nerve-wracking by themselves, and seeing a new doctor can just add to the stress. I noticed you’re a little tense…and fidgety, “he chuckles, and you duck your head in embarrassment, “hey, it’s ok! That’s why I have this little box of goodies here.” He taps the side of the ostentatious box affectionately.

“Just in case someone comes in extra nervous,” he shoots you a wink and you’re caught between feeling utterly flustered and bowled over with emotion again. You can’t decide. All you know is you want more than anything to pull up your hood and cinch the strings tight so you can hide from his playful ribbing and soulful, understanding eyes.

You look down at the little lavender sachet where it’s squeezed in your fist and unclench your hand, choking out a laugh and smooshing the contents to fluff them back up. It’s a cute bag, with lavender flowers stitched into the cloth.

“You’re supposed to sniff it.”

You look up at him to see he’s smiling sadly at you, concern etched into his features, and you’re about to say something totally inelegant like huh? when he follows up with, “that’s how aromatherapy works.”

You blink at him for a few seconds, absorbing his lame joke before bursting out laughing.

He laughs with you, rubbing at the back of his neck, and you think you can see the tips of his ears turning pink.

When your laughter peters out and you appear to no longer be in danger of tears, he picks up your folder and flips through the pages purposefully.

“Right. So let me tell you how I’d like to proceed. It looks like insurance will cover you for 30 visits— probably more than we’ll need, but I’ll reassess after I do your exam.”

You nod along with his words, not totally hearing him and caught on the word exam, but he plows on.

“We’re gonna take this slow: I’m going to show you how to do some stretches and deep breathing that will help you relax. You’re going to do them at home a few times a day between appointments, and we’ll reevaluate in a few weeks. Does that sound ok to you?”

He’s pinning you with those gorgeous eyes and you’re getting lost in them again and oh, shit he asked you a question didn’t he.

“Y-yeah that sounds good to me,” you stutter, heat blooming in your chest and setting your heart off on a race.

“Great! Then how about you undress from the waist down so I can see what I’m working with?”

“…you want me to what?” you squeak, your voice several octaves higher than usual.

He gives you an amused smirk and repeats himself more slowly, “take off your bottoms for me, so I can do your pelvic exam.”

The heat in your chest is spreading up the back of your neck and you manage to answer in a somehow even shriller tone than before, “and my underwear?”

He tilts his head at you— not unlike a golden retriever, you think— as his smirk spreads into a grin that’s just a touch wicked.

“How else am I going to feel how tight you are?”

You’re sure your mouth is hanging open unattractively as he reaches for a box of gloves and fishes one out, struggling to fit it over his…distractingly large hand.

He pauses as the rubber stretches over his knuckles, “do you have a latex allergy? I have nylon gloves I can use instead.”

You shake your head dumbly and stand on jelly legs. “Nope. Nope, no, I’m—I don’t uh- no allergy to that.” My god, you have never been less eloquent in your life.

“Ok, good. Now,” He pulls a clean white sheet from a basket of linens on the counter and hands it to you. “When you’re done, lie down on the table and cover your bottom half with this,” he crouches at the end of the table and unhooks a metal contraption on either side that juts up with a place to prop up your feet “and put your heels in the stirrups. I’m going to go in the hall while you disrobe, so just give me a holler when you’re ready.”

Dr. Pike pauses at the door and mutters what you think is ah, shit under his breath, holding his now-gloved hands up in a gesture of surrender. When he sees you watching him, his cheeks are definitely rosier than they were a few minutes ago.

“Right, so— yeah…I’ll be just…out here,” he says as he scoots the door open with his shoulder, and maneuvers it shut with his elbows.

You’re pretty. Really pretty. And your laugh makes him feel things he hasn’t felt since his wife left him.

He can’t dwell on that now, though, because you’re also nervous. Very nervous. From the way you try to avoid making eye contact with him to the unconscious clenching and unclenching of your left hand, he can tell this is an anxiety-inducing experience for you.

He wishes he knew what your preferred fidget toy is— he can tell you have one by the way your hand is clearly missing it— he’d encourage you to get it out to calm you.

Should he let you pick something out of the box? Or just let the aromatherapy do its thing? He doesn’t want to overwhelm you with too many options right out of the gate, but he can’t seem to keep his mind from working overtime to find a solution to your discomfort.

Marcus has never been the kind of person to just do his job and get on with it. He can’t ignore your signs of distress— no matter how subtle— like they aren’t flashing red lights, and put you in a situation that will make your anxiety and your pelvic floor worse.

Right. So. What can he do to help you relax?

He could put some music on, but all the CDs next to the little stereo are Melanie’s— he hasn’t had the chance to find his meditation mixes yet, and somehow he doesn’t think the burned CDs of early 2000s top hits would be the most soothing of choices.

He could play music from his phone, but he isn’t sure he has anything downloaded, and he doesn’t trust Spotify not to blare an advertisement during your exam. That would surely stress you out even more.

Maybe it’s time to upgrade to commercial free, he thinks absently, continuing to mentally rattle off possible solutions.

If the lavender sachet doesn’t work, does he have any incense? He’d have to move you to the meditation room for that though. Or would that just make your headache worse?

He sighs again and closes his eyes, counting out a few beats silently while he centers himself with some deep breaths.

Got that real big energy

Got that big, big energy

Hey, daddy…when you gonna stop playin’?

Marcus’s eyes snap open as the beginning notes to a definitely not office-appropriate song drifts from the front desk.

He pushes himself from the wall with his shoulder, still avoiding his gloved hands before remembering he touched the table’s stirrups with them on and will have to change them anyway— and marches towards the offending music.

Bad bitch, I can be your fantasy

I can tell you got big dick energy—

“MELANIE!”

She doesn’t hear him approach with the sound turned all the way up— and apparently lost in a little dance routine— but his reprimand makes her shriek and nearly topple backwards.

“Jesus, don’t scare me like that!” She gasps, locking her phone to quiet the sound of her new ringtone. She clutches at her chest dramatically, “If I died from a heart attack, you’d have to explain to Kit why she has to go back to Tinder.”

Marcus glowers half-heartedly at her, “That song is not work appropriate and you know it.”

“Would you relax? No one’s here, anyway,” Melanie rolls her eyes at him, flipping a lock of her bright pink hair over her shoulder.

Marcus tips his head back and groans.

Last week, her ringtone had been Hotline Bling. That one he’d thought was funny, and he had even indulged her in an impromptu dance session— complete with hip bump— before she had inevitably picked up on the second call.

“Doesn’t Kit get mad when you don’t answer?”

“Please, why do you think she always calls twice? She knows what she got herself into,” Melanie titters, fingers flying away on her phone, no doubt sending a text to her girlfriend.

“So…something wrong, boss?” she asks, not looking up from her phone.

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” Marcus huffs, leaning his shoulder against the door jamb and holding his hands up awkwardly.

“Ok, fine. Sup, doc?”

He glares at her. She smiles sweetly back at him.

“You wanna talk about why you’re holding your hands out like that?” She asks with a nod at his strange position.

Marcus’s ears are burning as he steps over towards the little trash can on the far side of the desk, struggling to peel the gloves off, teeth gritted with effort. The first comes off with a loud snap! and Marcus mutters, “not particularly.”

Melanie watches him as he fights for his life to remove the second glove, her pinched lips betraying her desire to either mock him or laugh at his predicament.

Probably both.

Frustrated when the glove somehow gets scrunched around his knuckles so tightly it begins to cut off the circulation to his fingers, he pleads, “You wanna help me out here?”

“No, I’d much rather watch, thanks,” she grins evilly. Marcus fixes her with the sternest frown he has in his arsenal, but she doesn’t even blink.

He resigns himself to a solo battle, attempting to dig the fingers of his free hand under the bunched material.

“I don’t know why they can’t make gloves my size,” he grumbles. The second glove finally comes off with such force it nearly smacks him in the face.

“Unfortunately there isn’t a big market for nitrile gloves for gigantic man hands,” Melanie quips, spinning her chair away to answer the ringing desk phone.

“I’ve never had any complaints,” Marcus says under his breath, and she twists back to him with alarming speed, a huge shit-eating grin on her face and one dainty manicured hand covering the receiver.

“I bet you haven’t,” she winks lecherously at him, and he heaves a sigh of exasperation to hide the way his ears have undoubtedly turned an appalling shade of red.

“Please don’t make me regret hiring you.”

Melanie blows him a kiss before taking her hand from the mouthpiece and delivering her signature chirp of a greeting.

“You getting coffee soon?” Marcus asks hopefully when she hangs up, and she heaves a put-upon sigh and folds herself under the desk to retrieve her purse.

“Watch out for your— “

THUNK

His (daily) warning comes a split second too late, and the sound of the back of her head smacking against the underside of the desk on her way back up makes him wince in sympathy.

“Ouch, fuck,” she spits, clutching at her head, eyes squeezed shut and a pained grimace pulling at her lips. “Every damn time.” She hoists the bag onto the desk and blinks her eyes rapidly in an effort to disperse the stars that are undoubtedly flooding her vision.

When she’s recovered, she grabs her phone and opens the notes app.

“So what’ll it be, boss? We doing the usual or are we feeling like an extra bitch today?”

Marcus splutters at the accusation while Melanie looks on with an angelic smile, fingers poised over the phone keyboard expectantly.

“I am not an…extra bitch,” he says sullenly, his voice going up at the end as if asking if he’d gotten the phrase correct.

“Mhm. Sure you’re not. And remind me again what your special Starbucks drink order is?” She taps a manicured nail thoughtfully against her chin, before jabbing it into the air as if having just remembered.

“Oh right. It’s a mocha Frappuccino with java chips, extra vanilla syrup, extra whipped cream, and caramel drizzle on top,” she says with a smug smile aimed at Marcus. His ears feel like they’ve been engulfed in flame.

“Lay off me, will you?” He says indignantly, and great, now his face is starting to burn up, too.

“You’re a little touchy today,” she observes, and he has to close his eyes and count down from ten to keep from lashing out before responding.

“You’re a little mean today,” he counters. Very mature, he scolds himself.

Only Melanie brings this side out in him.

“I’m mean every day. Is this about the pretty girl in your treatment room waiting for her pelvic exam? I heard her call out for you a few minutes ago,” she smiles knowingly, and Marcus curses under his breath, nearly tripping in his rush to get back to you.

He hopes he wasn’t gone long enough for you to get even more anxious.

“Wait, what do you want from Starbucks?!” Melanie wails after him.

He spins around halfway down the hall and hisses, “Surprise me!”

He stops outside your closed door and takes a few deep breaths, rolling his shoulders back to loosen them before stepping inside.

“Hey, sorry, I had to talk to my receptionist for a minute and I didn’t hear you call for me. You doing ok in here?”

You still your fingers where they’d been obsessively scrunching up the little lavender bundle, relishing each little burst of calming scent it brought forth, and smooth your hands down the sheet on your thighs nervously, craning your head to smile at Dr. Pike.

“Yep. All good,” you mumble unconvincingly, and he regards you for a moment, lips pursed, before nodding to himself and pulling his stool up to your side to sit halfway between your head and legs, reaching to grab the box of gloves on the counter before lowering himself onto it.

He freezes suddenly and shuts his eyes as if in pain. He sets the box on his lap, head hung low so you can’t see his face.

“I’m- I am so sorry,” he starts, and your mind sprints away from you—

Oh no what’s wrong what did I do how could I have already fucked up

“I meant to ask you…and now I’ve probably just made you even more anxious,” he laments under his breath, genuine anguish etched in his face.

Your adrenaline spikes and your stomach plummets. You swallow thickly, “what is it?”

He looks like a kicked puppy when he replies, “I meant to ask you if you were comfortable with doing the pelvic exam today, or if you wanted to wait a session or two. I know this is the kind of thing that’s…that can be less stressful when there’s a bit more of a professional working relationship established first— “

“It’s ok,” you rush to reassure him. “I— I’m comfortable enough to do it today,” you murmur, awed at his anxious rambling.

How can he be so sweet and considerate?

The relieved smile that breaks across his face makes your heart flutter helplessly and you squash the feeling down sternly.

He’s your doctor. This is how he is with all of his patients.

“Great. That-that’s great. Thank you… for trusting me,” he breathes, fishing a couple of gloves from the box and beginning the dance anew of wrangling them on.

You watch this time, entranced as he works the gloves down his long, thick fingers, wriggling it down his large palms until it finally engulfs his entire hand.

“Are you looking forward to anything later today?”

You blink, momentarily distracted from his unintentional show. “Um. No, not really.”

Dr. Pike grins at you, one glove on, “Come on, there must be something? There’s nothing you do every day that makes you happy, not even something small?”

The second glove is setting up camp now, banding tightly around his second knuckles, and the frustrated little frown on his face makes you bite back a giggle.

You fuss with the lavender sachet, bringing it up to your nose for a whiff. When you exhale, your mind is clear enough to come up with something, “I have a plate that I always eat dinner on.”

“Yeah? Can you tell me about it?” You can’t tell if he’s trying to help calm your anxiety or stalling for time while he wrestles the glove over his third knuckles.

“It’s blue with white cats on it— my mother got it for me when I was a teenager, and I’ve eaten dinner on it every night since,” you close your eyes as a wave of nostalgia washes over you.

“That sounds like a really nice tradition,” he says, and you blink your eyes open to see he’s finally situated the second glove, a pleased little smile tugging at his lips.

You can’t help but notice how very snug it is, the material like a second skin.

You have no idea why that gets you going.

“Ok, then. Here’s how the exam works: I’m going to get some of that lubricant over there,” he gestures to a small nondescript bottle on the counter that had somehow escaped your notice, “I’m going to spread some on my index finger, and then very slowly and carefully, I’m going to push my finger inside your vagina. If at any time you’re uncomfortable or if it hurts, tell me right away.”

His face is serious now, and you find yourself nodding along to his words with your eyes fixed on a very interesting spot on the ceiling, unable to look at him as heat starts to scorch a path through your body.

This is more intimate than any experience you’ve had with a partner. And about a thousand times more embarrassing in its precise, clinical verbiage.

“That’s very important, ok? It shouldn’t hurt, and I need to know if it does,” he insists firmly.

“Got it,” you squeak, giving him a shaky thumbs up.

“Ok good. I’m going to talk you through the whole thing, and I’m going to check in with you at every step to make sure you’re still comfortable. No surprises,” he gives you a lopsided smile and you can’t help but return it with a small one of your own.

Dr. Pike rolls his stool to the foot of the table and scooches between your spread legs. You can feel your heart beat thundering in your ears, can hear each pump of blood through your body.

“I’m going to lift the sheet now. You ok?” He asks, and you nod furiously, not trusting your voice to come out steady.

He smiles softly at you from over the sheet, “can you give me a ‘yes’ or ‘no’? I’d prefer a verbal answer…especially when I’m down here,” he winks at you and you throw an arm over your eyes in embarrassment.

He chuckles and you have to resist the urge to give him a swift kick in the chin.

“Yes,” you manage to answer, and you feel him give your knee a light squeeze before slowly lifting the sheet and folding it back around your waist.

You’ve done testing for STDs and HIV at your gynecologist. You’ve even had to get a colposcopy— which is still to this day one of the worst medical experiences of your life. This is no big deal in comparison.

And yet you can’t keep your legs from trembling in the stirrups, your knees weak and fighting the impulse to snap your legs closed so he can’t scrutinize you.

Self-criticisms flit through your mind— should I have shaved do I smell ok oh god I must look so weird so wrong— too quick to process, leaving an ugly knotted mess of malaise in the pit of your stomach.

You hear the click of what you assume is the bottle of lube opening, and then silence.

One. Two. Breathe. Three. Everything’s ok.

“So... dinner?” He asks nonchalantly, and you choke on a breath, thinking you couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly.

Is he…asking you out? Right as he’s about to give you a pelvic exam?

When you don’t answer for a few beats, he seems to understand what it is that came out of his mouth and rushes to elaborate, “Ah, wait that came out wrong,” he chuckles awkwardly, “what I mean is— do you know what you’re going to eat tonight? Because of your cat plate— I mean, what you’re going to eat on your cat plate.”

The droning rush of blood in your ears quiets significantly, and you can’t help but pinch your lips together to keep from giggling at his flustered state, his cheeks rosy and the tips of his ears an adorable shade of red.

He tips his head back and huffs at the ceiling, and a snort bursts out of you that has his head whipping up to look at you with pleading eyes.

“I promise I’m usually much more…I can talk better, most of the time,” he stumbles over his words even more, and now you are laughing, a hand coming up to cover your mouth to try to stifle the sound. You’re relieved when his plaintive eyes crinkle at the edges as he joins you.

Dr. Pike is even more handsome when he laughs, the lines in his face accentuated showing you that this is the man he is most of the time: joyful, smiling, happy. You can’t put your finger on why that’s so comforting to you.

“I’m sorry, I was trying to distract you a little bit,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck endearingly, and oh, he is far too cute.

“Well, mission accomplished because I am thoroughly distracted,” you manage to get out around your abating laughter.

“Good, my plan worked perfectly then,” he smiles that mega-watt grin that makes you melt inside. “Are you ok to get started, or do you need a minute?”

“No, no, I’m good to go now,” you tell him, the momentary relief draining slightly as you fold your hands over your stomach to try to avoid any nervous fidgeting.   

“Good. Ok. I’m going to part your labia now,” he disappears between your legs and a new flush of anxiety washes through you at his commentary.

Which is worse: to have him tell you what he’s doing to you, or the anticipation of waiting for him to do it?

You knit your fingers together over the lavender sachet and squeeze with all your might, pretending it’s just a much more pleasant smelling Squeezy Bruce.

You feel his gloved fingers gently spread your lips, and that protective impulse to close your legs flares to life again.

One. Two. Breathe.  

“You’re doing great,” he praises, and you shut your eyes tightly to block out everything but the sound of his voice. “Is it ok for me to keep going?”

You nod, chewing at the inside of your cheek, before remembering he can’t see you, “yes.”

“Ok. Here we go,” he says encouragingly, and you inhale shakily, holding your breath in apprehension.

Dr. Pike pauses, more than likely noticing the sudden tensing of your abdomen, “Can you do something for me?”

You look down and see his head pop up, framed by your sheet-covered legs, and the image strikes you as simultaneously mortifying and kind of comical.

Just like a jack-in-the-box. You’d laugh if you didn’t think it would come out sounding a little unhinged.

You give him a tentative nod and he smiles broadly at you.

“I want you to take a deep breath in for me, and on the exhale I’m going to push in. Ok?”

“S-sure. Yeah, ok,” you reply, your heart beating so loudly you’re sure he can hear it between your legs.

The thought makes your face flush in embarrassment, and you strangle the sachet in your fist as you take a deep breath in and resist the urge to hold it.

“Excellent. Now, slowly exhale for me.”

You push the air from your lungs as slowly as you can manage, and feel his finger breach you.

It’s thick, and even just the one inching it’s way inside has you feeling full.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, and in any other circumstance you’d find his words, coupled with his placement between your thighs, incredibly erotic. But you’re far too focused on the tightness inside you, trying not to squeeze down on the digit in protest.  

“Doing ok? Does anything hurt?” he asks, and you mutter a strained, “all good.”

“You sure? We can stop now if you need to,” his voice is tinged with uncertainty and you decide to be honest.

“It’s just…a little bit uncomfortable. But I’m ok, you can keep going,” you assure him, waving away his worry with the hand that isn’t crushing the lavender sachet in a death grip.

“We’re almost done, don’t worry,” he soothes you, a hand coming up and gently gripping your knee.

“Sure,” you whisper, and he gives you another light squeeze.

“You are pretty tight,” he muses aloud, and you make a noise of agreement in the back of your throat. “Do you think you can relax your muscles for me?”

A bolt of anxiety shoots through you, “I- um. How would I…do that?” You inadvertently clench down around his finger as a low-grade panic begins to build at not being able to follow his directions.

“Hey, you’re ok. You’re doing amazing,” Dr. Pike coos, like he’s trying to calm a hissing stary cat. “Can you do another deep breath for me?”

You do, feeling your walls relax ever-so-slightly around his finger, but not enough to make the sensation comfortable.

“Good, that’s so good. Ok, so there’s one more thing I can do while I’m down here, but if you’re ready to be done, we can stop right now.”

“Uh. What-what is it?”

“I can teach you how to manually stretch your pelvic floor muscles, so that you know how to do it at home. Or,” he gives your knee another grounding squeeze, “we can be done, and I can tell you how to do it instead. Whatever you want to do.”

You don’t think you’re ready for anything like that yet.

“Would it…would it be ok if we stopped?” you ask weakly.

“Absolutely no problem,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice, but you still feel a small jolt of guilt.

Can you get it together he’s just trying to do his job—

“Are- are you sure? You won’t…” you hesitate, registering the ridiculousness of your train of thought.

“Won’t… what?” He coaxes gently.

You twist your lips, debating your next words. “You… you won’t be mad? Like it won’t-um. Will it affect my treatment? If we…stop…” The words tumble out and then trail off, embarrassment and anxiety warring for dominance in your brain.

You worry at the lavender bundle and practically smush it against your face in an attempt to stuff the calming scent up your nose.

Breathe.

Dr. Pike’s confident voice cuts through your rapidly spiraling thoughts, “I will definitely not be mad, and it won’t affect your treatment at all.”

You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding (oops) and blink your eyes up at the ceiling to try to quell the relieved tears that are building along your lashes.

“Ok. Good. Yeah, I- let’s stop here,” your response is decidedly watery, but you’re so thankful to be given full agency over this decision you can’t find it in you to care. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he murmurs. “I’m going to slowly pull my finger out now. If anything hurts, let me know.”

He withdraws his finger at the same pace he pushed in, and you can feel your walls close up behind him, like they’re prepared to bar anyone further entrance.

“You did really, really good,” Dr. Pike tells you, his warm smile at odds with his near flailing struggle to strip his gloves off.

You choke out a small laugh, and his smile turns sheepish, that adorable pink staining the tips of his ears again.

He’s much quicker this time though, and they release his hands with a satisfying thwack. He balls them up in his fist and tosses them into the small trash bin in the corner as he stands.

“I’m gonna leave the room again so you can get dressed, but I’ll be right outside the door this time, so I won’t keep you waiting again,” he says with a small wink, and good lord, you could just combust right now and leave behind a nice, tidy pile of ash.

“Ok.”

He smiles at you and pulls the door closed with a soft snick, and you cover your face with your hands, feeling the persistent burn on your skin for a few moments before rolling off the padded table to redress.

Marcus does exactly as he told you he would, leaning against the wall next to the treatment room so he doesn’t miss you call out for him.

Melanie’s head pops out around the doorframe of the reception desk, disembodied from the rest of her, “Hey, boss, got your cavity-waiting-to-happen here.” Her hand joins her head, clutching his Frappuccino and wiggling it enticingly at him with raised eyebrows.  

He rolls his eyes, “Not now, I’m still with the patient,” he whisper-shouts.

She tilts her head curiously at him, but seems to think better of commenting, and shrugs (he assumes, given he can’t see anything but her head and the hand waving his drink).

“Ok, but I can’t be held responsible if most of it is gone by the time you’re done.”

Before he can give her a biting response, he hears you call out softly that you’re dressed. He doesn’t even spare a backwards glance at his obnoxious receptionist as he raps softly on the door before pushing it open a few inches.

“Hey. All good in here?” He asks, waiting for your nod and a “yup, all good,” before scooting in the room and pulling the door to behind him. He props himself up against the counter, bracing his hands on either side of him and lowering his shoulders.

You’re perched on the edge of the exam table, back straight and shoulders tensed like you’re waiting for bad news. You’re looking at him, really looking at him, your eyes bright in the sunlight filtering in from the window. It catches on the curve of your cheek, the slight sheen of your bottom lip, bathing you in an ethereal glow, and Marcus has to catch his breath before speaking.

“So I feel like I have a good idea of what I’m working with now, and don’t worry, it’s very manageable,” he tells you, meeting your eyes evenly, as if he isn’t enchanted by having your full attention on him.  

Your eyes fall to the floor and you swallow visibly, as if the next words are physically painful for you to speak aloud. Your voice is quietly hopeful when you ask, “Does that mean you can fix me?”

A dull throbbing in his chest, a sharp echo of a memory. Someone else asking the same question to a different doctor, many years ago.

Can you fix me?

Will I ever be the same?

He tries to keep his smile from looking as agonized as he suddenly feels, “You don’t need to be ‘fixed,” because you’re not broken,” he tells you firmly but not unkindly.

Don’t touch me, I can’t stand it

I’m broken

He breathes through it, tamping down the crush of memories with practiced ease.

This is different. This isn’t personal.

 You have the opportunity to help someone feeling just as helpless as she did.

This is why you became a physical therapist.

The affirmations calm him considerably, and his smile is much less strained as he continues, “You have a very manageable condition, and I would be honored if you would allow me to help you.”

He almost doesn’t catch the way your face collapses in on itself with how quickly you school your features into a semblance of neutrality. Your slightly-wobbly bottom lip is all that gives you away.

Marcus imagines comforting you in a manner that is decidedly not within the bounds of your professional relationship, and pushes that down, too.  

“Yeah. Yeah, ok. I would…I’d like that, very much,” you murmur, your eyes finally lifting from the ground to meet his. “Thank you, Dr. Pike.” The beginnings of a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips makes his heart ache.

“Thank you,” he returns sincerely, fisting his hands at his sides to keep from reaching out and pulling you into a hug. “And feel free to call me Marcus.”

You smile fully at him then, “Ok. Thank you, Marcus.”

He gestures towards the door, hoping you can’t see the heat beginning to stain his neck at hearing you call him by his first name, “Let me walk you to the front desk so we can set up your next appointment with Melanie.”

He waves you in front of him, but you stop suddenly at the threshold of the room, holding the lavender sachet out to him.

“Thank you for…this really helped,” you tell him, and this time he can tell the way you duck your head to avoid his eyes isn’t from anxiety, but from shyness.

 Something inside him preens a little bit, and he conjures up a mental image of beating it down with a tennis racket.

She is your patient.

“Oh no, you keep that. My gift to you,” he reaches out and closes his hand over yours around the small bundle, and before he can regret the impulsive action, your eyes flick up to his, widening slightly.

“Are you sure?” you ask uncertainly, but he can see the way your eyes light up at the gesture.

“Very sure,” he grins, thinking he hasn’t been so sure about anything in a long time.

Sure about the sachet, that is.

“Thank you,” you whisper, curling your hand into your chest to cradle the little bag against your chest.

Marcus nods this time, not trusting himself to respond appropriately to your genuine show of vulnerable appreciation.

You very nearly skip from the room, and he trails behind you, ears burning all the way to the front desk where he stops beside you.

“Melanie here will set up your next appointment— would you be ok with seeing me weekly?”

“Yes. Yeah, that would be good. Awesome,” you beam at him, and he tucks his hands into his pockets to keep from touching you again.

“Great. See you soon,” he shoots you one last smile before turning away and striding down the hall, fleeing Melanie’s knowing eyes. He opens the door to his office and looks back at you one last time to see you watching him, sachet still cupped against your chest. His chest throbs dully again, and he gives you a little wave that you return shyly, looking embarrassed to be caught.

He chuckles and ducks into his office, closing the door behind him carefully before collapsing into his chair.

Marcus sets his elbows on his desk and drops his head into his hands with a groan, raking his fingers through his hair.

He doesn’t want to think or talk about Hayley right now. But Melanie knows him too well, knows what his face looks like when he’s thinking about his wife.

Ex-wife.

He scrubs his hands over his face, like he can physically scour the painful memories from the forefront of his mind with enough friction.

I’m sorry, Marcus

I just… can’t do this anymore

He squeezes his eyes shut until color explodes behind his eyelids, but it’s not enough to block out the memories.