Winter POV
The coffee shop across from the clinic had become my refuge. Its small, quiet charm and the way the owner always remembered my order made it the perfect escape from the mounting pressure of work—and Damon.
Sitting by the window, I stirred my latte absentmindedly, watching the slow trickle of pedestrians outside. Therapy with Damon had become increasingly difficult, not because of his physical progress, but because of everything unsaid between us. The tension wasn’t just in the sessions anymore—it lingered in the way he looked at me, sharp and questioning, as if he was waiting for me to c***k.
And in some ways, I already had.
The conversation with Coach James last week still echoed in my mind. His suggestion to move Damon’s therapy to his home wasn’t unreasonable, but it felt
