I told myself it was just a routine checkup.
A sterile room. Fluorescent buzz. The sharp bite of antiseptic to keep me grounded.
But then he entered, gloved hands steady, eyes promising salvation I didn't deserve.
The man who'd sworn to heal me.
Instead, he pinned me under those lights, trembling flesh yielding to his deliberate command.
And God, I hated how much I craved it.

Trauma clawed at me for years, a ghost I buried under sarcasm and denial.
Defiance my armor.
Surrender? Self-destruction, I lied.
Yet there I was, sweat-slicked in a locked recovery bay, whispered consents twisting into guttural pleas amid scattered charts.
His ruthless dominance stripped me bare, turning clinical detachment into intoxicating ruin.
Painful trust.
Degrading ecstasy that felt like the only real intimacy I'd ever known.

He fights the healer in him, or so his flashes of tender ferocity whisper.
I fight the hunger he sees right through.
Professional oaths shatter under obsessive need, his career and my fragile scars hanging in the balance.
One wrong plea, and the clinic crumbles.
My self-respect? Already in shards.
This forbidden pull binds us, healer and broken, where humiliation becomes liberation.
Or damnation.

What if surrender heals the wounds we both hide?
Or rips them open forever?