I keep telling myself this is just another late-night exam, but Rebecca stands at the table's edge with her lip caught between her teeth, and the lie tastes thin. Her uniform does nothing to hide how much she needs the order I haven't given yet.
The scar on my wrist pulls tight when I reach past her for the instrument tray. One quiet command to bare her skin for the reading, and everything I've built to stay isolated starts to slip through my fingers like the control I pretend to hold.
My reputation rests on the door staying locked and the line staying drawn, yet the question remains how long before she sees the hunger I hide behind every clinical word.
