Chapter 2

Her office smelled faintly of mint and alcohol — sharp, clean, and distant, just like her.

Dr. Aria moved with quiet precision. Every motion was measured, every word trimmed of warmth. She asked the usual questions about my skin condition, my routine, my products. I answered like I always did, pretending everything was normal.

But nothing felt normal. Not anymore.

“Lie down,” she said, her voice calm, clinical.

I obeyed, my pulse quickening as I settled on the reclined chair. The sound of her gloves snapping in place echoed faintly in the room. She started checking my face, the pad of her gloved fingers tracing the curve of my jaw, the slope of my cheek.

It should have felt ordinary — she’d done this countless times before — but this time, I couldn’t ignore the heat crawling up my neck.

Her touch lingered longer than necessary. Not obvious, just enough to make me question if it was intentional.

“You’ve been skipping your sessions,” she said softly, her fingers still on my skin.

“I got busy,” I replied, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Busy,” she repeated, as if testing the word. “Your skin disagrees.”

Her thumb brushed the corner of my lip, slow and deliberate. I tensed.

“That area’s sensitive,” I muttered.

“I know,” she said, her tone unreadable. “That’s why I’m careful.”

I swallowed hard, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. Every second stretched. Her calmness made it worse like she knew exactly what effect she had on me.

When she finally stepped back, the air between us felt heavier. I could still feel the ghost of her touch, even after she moved away.

She removed her gloves, her eyes briefly meeting mine. “You look pale. Did you eat lunch?”

“Not yet,” I said, trying to steady my voice.

“You should,” she replied, crossing her arms. “You can’t take care of your skin if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Her concern sounded genuine, but the way she looked at me didn’t feel like concern at all. It felt like observation; quiet, searching, almost predatory.

When I didn’t answer, she stepped closer again. Too close.

“Tell me,” she murmured, her voice lower now. "Why did you skip your appointment?"

I blinked, caught off guard. “I told you. I got—"

"You're the one who booked your appointments, why did you book that day if you're busy?"

The room went still.

She smiled faintly, not the warm kind, but the kind that made my stomach twist. “You’re tense again,” she said, slipping her gloves back on. “Relax, Ena. You've done this a lot of times already."

Her words sounded calm, but there was something about the way she said my name that made my chest tighten.

She adjusted the chair a little lower, her fingers brushing my shoulder as if by accident. “Tilt your head,” she instructed. I did.

Her hand lingered for a second too long before she began applying the treatment cream. The cool gel met my skin, but it was her touch that sent heat crawling down my neck again.

“Still tense,” she said quietly. “Try to relax.”

“I’m fine,” I whispered, though my voice betrayed me.

“Are you?”

I looked up, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were calm, unreadable, but the corners of her lips curved slightly, like she knew exactly what I was thinking.

“This job makes you anxious, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You carry it here,” she said, brushing her fingers along my temple. “This part’s always tense. You think too much.”

Her touch was barely there, just a ghost of contact, but it felt heavy enough to still my breath.

She leaned closer, her perfume faint, clean and subtle, the kind that lingers longer than it should. “Do you ever stop thinking, Ena?”

I wanted to answer, but my voice caught in my throat.

She pulled back slightly, her expression neutral again. “You should learn how,” she said softly. “Sometimes the body remembers what the mind refuses to admit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, my heart racing.

“Nothing,” she said, smiling faintly. “Just an observation.”

She continued the session as if nothing happened... her movements precise, careful, professional. But every touch left a trail of confusion in its wake.

When she finished, she removed her gloves again and wrote something on her clipboard. “That’s it for today. Your skin’s improving.”

“Thanks,” I said quietly, sitting up.

She nodded, her gaze following me as I fixed my hair. “I’ll see you next week?”

I hesitated, unsure if it was a question or a command.

“Yeah,” I finally said.

“Good.”

She smiled again, that same calm, unreadable smile and turned back to her desk.

"Make sure to give a heads up in case you decided to skip your appointment. I don't want to keep waiting," she said without looking at me.

"I won't skip," I said tyring to sound sure.

I left the room trying to convince myself that it was just another session. But my body said otherwise. My thoughts wouldn’t stop replaying the way her voice softened when she said my name, the way her fingers paused just a second longer than they should.

By the time I stepped outside, I realized something I didn’t want to admit.

That kiss doesn't mean anything to her... but to me... it does. I meant something. Something I need to figure out.

And as much as I hated to admit that the kiss stayed in my mind for too long than it should, I have to. I need to admit and accept it so that I could move on and forget that it happened.

I took a deep breath before walking to my car. The cool air outside didn’t help; it only made everything sharper, the memory of her hands, her voice, the way she looked at me like she could read what I was trying so hard to hide.

I started the engine and stared at my reflection on the rear-view mirror. My cheeks were still flushed. “Get a grip, Ena,” I whispered.

The traffic lights blurred as I drove, but my thoughts didn’t. They kept circling back to her, to the way she said I don’t want to keep waiting.

Was that about work… or about me?

The thought made my stomach twist again.

When I reached home, I dropped my bag on the couch and turned on the faucet, letting the water run until it overflowed the glass in my hand. I didn’t even notice. My mind was somewhere else, back in that cold room, under her touch.

I told myself it was nothing. Just confusion. A reaction. But the more I tried to erase it, the clearer it became.

And maybe that’s what scared me most.

Because deep down, I wasn’t sure if I'm just confused, thrilled, or I wanted to forget.

The phone buzzed on the counter. One new message.

Unknown Number

You forgot your compact mirror. Come back tomorrow to get it.