Chapter Text
You had been through several therapists — most of them with little luck. Leaves crunched beneath your feet as you walked on a flagstone path, framed by an alley of golden oaks. At the end stood a pale yellow brick building, walls covered in ivy: the hospitals psychiatry department. Sharp autumn wind nipped at your skin as you pulled your coat tighter around you in an attempt to keep warm. Soon enough you were inside, the reception rather cozy. Red, velvet sofas, dark wooden tables and crackling heat from an old fireplace. The lady at the front desk perked up as she saw you. “You here for Mr. Way?”
“Yes, I have an appointment at twelve,” you said, voice flat, not particularly excited for another course of therapy.
She told you to take a seat and wait, that he would come and get you any minute. You sunk down onto the plush cushion, fingers gliding along the velvet, softness calming your nerves. Crackling of wood melting away the tension in your head.
A figure appeared around the corner, a man in flannel and jeans, dark locks, silvering at the temples, his hazel eyes scanned the room before landing on you. He gave you a nod upward, motioning you to come over. You gazed into his eyes a moment longer before scrambling your bag together and rising. His boots shuffled down the hall in long strides, you struggled to keep up, feet pattering in rapid steps.
You got to the end of the hall and he held the door open for you, you pushed past him, catching a whiff of his scent, woody, smokey. Inside, his office smelled of coffee and books. You sank down into the soft armchair across from him. It was quiet. He laid out his notebook and pen in his lap, taking a sip of coffee from a chipped mug. Letting the silence stretch, as to assess you. You fidgeted with your nails, glancing up at him.
“What made you come in today?” He finally cut through the quiet, voice low and steady.
You told him your whole story, how you’re always restless, anxious. Chest always aching and mind always churning. How nothing has helped and you resorted to this private, remote treatment center, that the reviews looked good. He nodded along, pen scribbling on paper as he took notes, eyes occasionally flicking up.
The room went silent, you were done telling and he was done noting. It stretched thick like honey, dripping slow and sticky as his eyes bore into you. You felt your cheeks heat up, feeling like a lab rat study. “And when you get anxious, how do you usually notice it first?” He asked, slow and controlled, leaning closer to you as he moved at the edge of his seat.
“U-usually my breath,” you hitched.
He lifted his pen, pointing it towards your neck. Gliding it over your throat. “’nd m-my pulse.” It slid across your chest, the slopes of your collarbones, down your sternum where your blouse wasn’t buttoned. His eyes never left yours, gauging your reaction. You felt your chest heave, pressing into the pen resting there. Then he pulled back, abruptly leaning back in his chair.
“Well, session’s over, we’ll talk more about it next week.”
He stood up, gathered his notes and went to his desk. You swallowed, rubbing your thighs together as you watched the muscles tensing in his broad back as he hunched over his computer, tapping away at the keys. “Monday at 4 p.m okay?”
“Y-yes,” you had to clear your throat to get the words properly out.
The air hit your flushed skin as a slap when you got outside.
Monday came fast. The oaks had dropped half their leaves, the path painted orange. You stood outside the yellow-brick building again, the wind had sharper teeth now, slicing through your coat.
Mr. Way was already in the doorway when you stepped inside. No receptionist this time. He tilted his head toward the hall. “After you.”
His voice was quieter than last week, soft. You caught the scent again—wood, smoke, coffee. Your heart drummed against your ribs.
The office door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t sit.
Instead he leaned back against the desk, arms folded, watching you sink into the same armchair. The silence stretched longer than before. You felt the walls narrowing around you.
“Tell me what happened after last time,” he said.
You opened your mouth, nothing came. The memory of the pen gliding over your sternum flashed your mind, your thighs pressed together in front of your psychologist.
He had noticed— of course he had. One brow lifted, slow. “Words sweetheart.”
The endearment hit you straight in your core. You swallowed.
“I… kept thinking about the ache in my chest.” Your voice came out small. “And your pen.” You stopped, cheeks burning.
He exhaled through his nose. “Show me.”
Your gaze snapped to his.
“W-what?”
“Show me where it hurts.” He pushed off the desk, closing the space between you in two strides. “I’m your therapist, let me help.”
The rational part of you screamed. The rest was already leaning forward, your fingers rising to the buttons of your blouse, popping the third one. The fabric parted like it had been waiting.
His knuckles brushed over your pulse, then lower, tracing the same patch the pen had taken. This time there was no plastic, only the heat of his fingertips against your skin, making your breath tremble.
“Good,” he murmured. “Breathe through it.”
His palm flattened between your breasts, feeling the wild hammering of your heart. You pressed into him, arching your back off the chair. He made a low sound, almost a groan.
“Let me help,” he mumbled, repeating himself as his lips grazed your ear, arms sliding from your chest to your waist, tugging you closer.
His mouth found yours—hard, certain, tasting of bitter coffee and cigarettes, the scrape of stubble against your chin. You moaned into it, the sound swallowed whole as he pushed you back into the chair. His weight pinned you down, knee nudging your thighs apart. You found yourself grinding against him, chasing friction.
“Gonna fuck you mindless,” he babbled against your neck, teeth scraping. “Make it all go away.” His teeth dragged down your neck, sinking in, claiming. You arched, fingers twisting in his hair, hard enough to earn a growl.
He was already hard, thick against your inner thigh, denim straining. Frantic fingers worked his belt open, zipper rasping. The room spun, his chipped mug sitting on the desk, steaming coffee that was gonna go cold, bookshelves smelling of old paper and dust. He shoved your skirt up, tore your panties aside, your fingers helped him rip the lace further, impatient. Two fingers slid into you without warning. You cried out, clenching around the intrusion.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he rasped. “This what you needed? Someone to shut the noise off?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “Shut it off.” Your nails raked down his back under the flannel. He curled his fingers, thumb circling your clit at the same time, firm and ruthless. Your moans and the wet sounds of his fingers fucking you filled the room, obscene and perfect.
He withdrew his fingers, replaced them with the blunt head of his cock, pushing in slow, letting you adjust inch by inch. The stretch burned, but your slick welcomed all of him until he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, pulsing inside you.
He set a brutal pace, hips thrusting deep, the wooden legs of the chair creaked beneath you, threatening to break. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb pressing into the corner of your mouth, forcing your eyes to his.
“Look at me,” he said, in between his own moans. “Let me see you break.”
Your eyes locked, hazel eyes gone dark with lust, silver streaks catching in the light. Each thrust knocked the breath out of you, your thoughts scattered like leaves. Pleasure coiled tight and low in your belly. His free hand slid between you, thumb back on your clit, rubbing in sync with his hips.
You shattered — back arching, eyes closing shut, cries ripping from your throat. Your walls clenched around him in pulsing waves. He followed right after, groaning your name like it hurt, thrusts stuttering. Buried deep as he spilled hot inside you, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
After, he didn’t pull away. Forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick skin sticking, both of you panting. Outside, the wind whistled, causing the ivy to rattle against the windows.
“Next Monday,” he said, voice hoarse. “Same time.”
You laughed, shaky and breathless. “Unless I need an urgent appointment.”
The radiator clanked once, then settled into a steady hum. He eased out of you with a slow drag that left warmth trickle down your thigh. The air smelled of sex and stale coffee, that chipped mug on the desk gone cold.
Mr. Way didn’t move, he stayed close. Smoothing out your skirt with a gentle touch, your eyes caught on his knuckles, feeling the absurd urge to kiss them.
Your pulse hadn’t settled, blood still racing through your veins. He noticed, placing two fingers over your throat, counting the beats.
“Still racing,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You swallowed. The rational part of you—that had screamed earlier—was quieter now, curled up in a corner in your mind like a scolded child. The rest of you wanted to stay here forever, pinned underneath him in the velvet chair.
He reached past you, plucked a tissue from a box you hadn’t noticed, and cleaned you with the same clinical care he’d shown when he took notes last week. The gesture was so intimate it almost felt like a violation, more than when he was inside you.
Your legs shook when you tried to stand, he caught you and for a moment you were eye-level with the silver at his temples. Faint lines visible by the crook of his eye, from years of genuine smiles. You wondered if he’d been married, if he had any kids.
“Sit,” he said, guiding you back into the armchair. The cushion still warm from both of you. He crouched in front of you, therapist posture—knees apart, hands on his thighs—the absurdity almost made you laugh.
“Breathe with me,”
He inhaled slow, held it, let it go. You followed, mimicking his tempo. The room came back into focus. After three breaths, he spoke. “Tell me what you’re feeling. Right now.”
The question was clinical, but his voice slightly cracked in the end. You studied the bob of his Adam's apple. The way his eyes searched for something in yours.
“Like my mind’s quieter, filled with something that isn’t anxiety.”
His mouth curved—not fully reaching his eyes. “That’s the goal.”
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, mirroring him. Your eyes wide and glossy, caught between apprehension and bliss. This is how people lose licenses.
He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, hand lingering on your cheekbone.
“You’ll leave here in five minutes, walk the same path, feel the same wind. But the noise—” he tapped your sternum, right where the pen had been. “—will be quieter. For a while.”
You caught his wrist before he could retreat, craving his touch. “And when it comes back?”
“You book something sooner.” His eyes flicked to the calendar on his desk, then back to you. “I clear my afternoons for difficult cases.”
You let out a genuine laugh. You rose, testing your legs — which held. He stood with you, close enough that you still shared the same heat. You considered kissing him. You didn’t. Instead you buttoned your blouse with deliberate care, fingers trembling slightly. You felt his gaze burning.
At the door, you paused. “Next Monday,” you said, echoing him.
He gave you an affirmative smile and nod, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
You stepped into the empty hallway, door clicking shut behind you with a finality that startled you.
Outside, the wind had teeth, but they didn’t bite as deep. The orange path crunched under your boots, and for the first time in months, the ache in your chest felt different—like a bruise you wanted to press again.