Everett's hands have always been steady, whether suturing a wound or turning the pages of our shared ledger. I told myself the clinic was enough, that his authority over the patients extended no further than the door. Yet every evening the examination room pulls me back with its gleaming straps and the promise of order I cannot name.
My widow's independence feels thinner each time he corrects my posture at the table. The winter air seeps through the unlatched gate, but inside, the gaslight warms the leather and my resolve thins with it. I should refuse the next summons.
Instead I lie back when he asks, skirts still in place, and watch his fingers close around the first strap. My left wrist waits beneath the buckle, and his gaze holds mine without mercy or retreat.
