Leviticus wet his lips and leaned back into the couch, shoulders loosening.
"Feels like we've been in here all day."
Dr. Miriam glanced down at the silver wristwatch on her wrist, then back at him.
"Two hours and twenty minutes."
He let out a low whistle. "Damn."
"You say that every time," Miriam said.
"Because it's true, every time," he replied.
Dr. Miriam picked up her notebook, tapping its edge against her palm. "We've got about ten minutes left."
His eyes drifted to the cup of tea on the table between them. The surface was still, untouched for a while now.
"Guess that explains why it's cold."
Miriam's mouth curved faintly—not amused, but acknowledging. "You've been walking me through your father's life," she said, "and through your relationship with his stories."
"Yeah. Sometimes I don't even know which parts are his memories and which ones I've filled in myself."
"That's normal." She didn't hesitate. "Memory is collaborative, especially inherited memory."
"So you're saying I've been co-authoring his trauma."
"I'm saying you've been carrying it," she replied gently. "There's a difference."
He nodded, quiet for a moment.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
A grin tugged at his mouth. "Personal question."
Miriam leaned back slightly. "You can ask. I'll decide if I answer."
"Fair trade." He paused, then—"You ever get tired of this?"
"Of therapy?" she asked.
"Of people," he clarified. "Sitting across from strangers while they unpack their mess and leave it on your carpet."
Her lips pressed together briefly. A micro-pause.
"I don't take it home."
"That wasn't the question."
She studied him now. "Sometimes," she admitted. "But I chose this."
He nodded slowly. "You married?"
She didn't blink. "No. Seeing anyone?"
"And that's where we stop," she said calmly.
He laughed, hands raised in surrender. "Had to try."
"I know."
"And how'd I do?"
Her gaze met his, unflinching. "Smooth," she said. "But predictable."
"Ouch," Leviticus muttered.
"You'll recover," Miriam said.
"Probably," he admitted.
He tilted his head. "You ever wonder what your patients imagine about you?"
She rose, signaling the session's end. "I don't wonder. I assume."
"Dangerous assumption," Leviticus said.
"Occupational hazard," Miriam replied.
She walked ahead of him toward the door. As she moved, his eyes followed.
She was wearing black trousers—business casual, tailored to project professionalism and restraint. Fitted, but not tight by intention. And yet on her body, they clung with subtle defiance.
The fabric stretched smoothly over thick thighs that brushed faintly with each step, rising into a slim, defined waist that narrowed just enough to exaggerate the fullness below it. Her hips rolled—not deliberately, not seductively in the obvious sense—but with the natural sway of a woman who carried weight beautifully.
Each step sent a soft ripple through her backside. The movement was fluid, like water disturbed by a careful hand. The trousers did little to hide it. If anything, they framed it—outlined the gentle bounce, the slow, hypnotic rhythm of flesh shifting beneath fabric.
Levi felt it in his chest before he registered it in his head. The way the material pulled slightly at the seams. The way the curve sat full and round, unapologetic. The way her stride made it move left, right, settle—again and again—each motion carrying a quiet suggestion of softness, of warmth, of give.
It was distracting. Almost unfair.
He realized he was smiling.
She slowed near the door and, without turning fully, stopped just long enough.
Leviticus caught himself mid-step. His gaze still exactly where it shouldn't have been.
Too late, his eyes lifted, meeting hers as she glanced back. Not surprised. Not amused. Just aware.
She had caught him.
He didn't look away fast enough. Didn't bother pretending. Let the smile stay easy—shameless, unapologetic.
She held his gaze for a beat. Said nothing.
Then she turned back to the door and reached for the handle.
"Same time next week?"
He smiled, unashamed. "Wouldn't miss it."
She held the door open with professional ease.
Leviticus passed through, offered a brief nod, and continued toward the exit.
Outside, the weather had shifted. The clouds had thinned while he was inside—nothing dramatic. Just a brighter sky, sunlight spilling across the pavement like it had always been there, waiting.
He stopped beside his car instead of getting in. Leaned against the door and pulled out a blunt.
The lighter sparked.
Smoke curled into the air as he inhaled slowly. He reached for his phone, flicked Do Not Disturb off.
The screen exploded to life.
Bathsheba — 23 missed calls.Babe — 2 missed calls.Mom — 1 missed call.Other notifications stacked beneath—social media, messages, alerts flashing all at once.
He scrolled for a bit, exhaled, then tapped Bathsheba.
She picked up instantly.
"Hey," she purred, voice slow and sultry, lingering on every syllable. "Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you."
"I was busy."
"What's up?"
A pause. Soft fabric shifting on her end.
"I miss you," she said, low and teasing—but urgent. "I need you right now."
"I'm a bit far. Maybe another time."
"No," she insisted. "Come anyway."
"Bashy." A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "You sound desperate."
"I'm not." Her voice cracked slightly. "I just—I need you. Please. It'll be worth your while. I swear."
He leaned against the car, fingers tapping the roof, playing bored.
"Worth my while, huh? You'll have to convince me."
Her voice dropped, velvet thick with desire. "I will. I promise. Just—just get here."
He chuckled softly. "You talk too much."
"I'll show you instead," she whispered. "I'll make it unforgettable. You won't regret it."
Another pause.
Then a notification.
A photo loaded—bare skin framed in a mirror, hips angled deliberately, fingers brushing low. Not obscene. Just provocative. Seductive. An invitation disguised as a tease.
Leviticus' jaw tightened.
He exhaled slowly. "You're lucky I like teasing you back," Leviticus muttered.
"I'll make it worth it," she insisted, voice rising, desperate now. "I'll make you forget everything. Just come."
He smiled faintly. "You're getting worked up, aren't you?"
"Yes," she breathed. "I can't wait. I need you. Hurry."
"Alright. Alright. I'm coming."
He flicked the blunt away, crushed it under his shoe, and slid into the car.
The engine roared to life.
Traffic rolled past in clean lines and green lights. He stopped briefly at a drive-through, grabbed something to eat, then merged back onto the road.
The phone rang again.
Bathsheba.
He put it on loudspeaker.
"Where are you now?" she demanded, breathy, impatient.
"Not far," he said, eyes on the road.
"Hurry up," she whispered. "Hurry up, daddy."
He smirked despite himself. "Relax. I'm on my way."
Another buzz.
"I just sent you a video," she said. "Look at what you're missing out on."
He hesitated—then tapped it.
The screen filled with movement. No faces. Just the lower half of a woman's body swaying slowly. Skin catching the light. Fabric riding high.
Then the sound.
Soft. Rhythmic.
Flesh brushing against flesh with each deliberate motion. A wet, muted clap that pulled his focus deeper than the image ever could.
His grip tightened on the wheel.
Another clap.
A horn blared.
He looked up too late.
"Fuck."
The impact came quick and solid—not violent, but jarring enough to snap the moment clean in half. Metal kissed metal. The car lurched.
Leviticus slammed the brakes.
Everything stopped.