I keep every patient at a distance with clipped commands and clinical distance, but Queenie on the exam table in that thin paper gown changes everything from the first moment she sits down.

I snap the latex gloves on anyway, the sterile scent filling the room while I tell myself this is just another procedure, just authority and instruments and nothing personal. Her soft curves and quiet yielding draw my hands closer, and I know the moment I part her knees wider under the guise of examination the control I've maintained for years will start to crack.

The career and the clinic hang in the balance along with the armor I built to avoid any real exposure, yet the real risk is whether I can keep pretending this stays detached when her responsive body forces me to confront the vulnerability I dread most.