Chapter 4

Mabel

The clink of silverware against plates filled the dining room, a familiar symphony that usually grounded me, but tonight it felt distant, like echoes from another life.

I sat at the table with my family—Mom chatting animatedly with my stepdad, my younger sister scrolling through her phone under the table, and me, pushing peas around my plate like they held the answers to my unraveling world.

The aroma of roasted chicken and garlic mashed potatoes should have been comforting, a reminder of home, but all I could think about was the clinic earlier that day.

Dr. Cole's hands—gentle, precise—had awakened something in me I didn't know was sleeping. That unexpected warmth, the flush that had spread through my body... it replayed in my mind on an endless loop, stirring a mix of shame and curiosity that made my cheeks heat even now.

"Mabel, honey, you okay? You've barely touched your food," Mom said, her brow furrowing with concern as she passed the bread basket. Her voice pulled me back, but only halfway; the rest of me lingered in that examination room, feeling exposed and alive in a way Ethan never made me feel.

I forced a smile, nodding. "Yeah, just a long day. Work stuff." It wasn't entirely a lie—the emotional wreckage felt like overtime without pay. But how could I explain the rest? The betrayal from Ethan still stung, raw and festering, mingled now with this new confusion from the doctor's touch. I felt like a puzzle with missing pieces, scattered and incomplete.

My stepdad cleared his throat, diving into the conversation to fill the silence. "Speaking of long days, I heard from my brother today. Adrian's finally making the move back to town. Can you believe it? Opening his own clinic right here."

Adrian. The name hit me like a distant bell, but I was too wrapped up in my thoughts to register it fully. My step-uncle—well, stepdad's brother, so not blood-related, but family all the same. I hadn't seen him in years, not since some awkward holiday gathering when I was a teenager.

He was always the successful one, the doctor off in the big city. But tonight, with my mind replaying the clinic visit—the hazel eyes, the kind smile, the spark—I barely processed the news. It was just background noise to the storm inside me.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Mom beamed, clasping her hands. "It's been too long. Mabel, you remember Uncle Adrian, right? Such a charming man. The clinic will be a great addition to the town. Maybe you could stop by sometime, say hi."

I murmured a vague "Mmm-hmm," spearing a piece of chicken without tasting it. Charming. The word echoed oddly, overlapping with memories of Dr. Cole's reassuring voice, telling me I wasn't broken.

But I was, wasn't I? Ethan's words—"Mother Virgin"—clawed at me, fueling a desperation that twisted my insides. The family's chatter faded into a hum as I retreated inward, the weight of the day pressing down, leaving me adrift in a sea of unresolved longing and self-doubt.

Dinner wrapped up eventually, with hugs and goodnights that felt mechanical on my end. I escaped to my room—wait, no, the apartment.

Ethan was gone, but his absence lingered like a ghost. I collapsed onto the bed, the sheets cool against my skin, and stared at the ceiling. The flyer from Dr. Cole sat on my nightstand, a silent invitation to that class, but I wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

The quiet amplified everything—the ache in my chest, the frustration bubbling under my skin. I thought about Ethan, but his face blurred, replaced by Dr. Cole's.

Those warm eyes, the way his touch had ignited something forbidden during the exam. My hand slipped under the waistband of my pajamas, tentative at first, seeking that spark on my own terms. I closed my eyes, imagining his voice murmuring reassurances, his fingers gentle and knowing.

A soft sigh escaped me as warmth began to build, slow and teasing. I chased it, thinking of his smile, the way he'd looked at me not with judgment, but understanding. But as the sensations intensified, so did the desperation—a frantic need to prove I could do this, that I wasn't the frigid failure Ethan accused me of being.

My movements grew hurried, pressured by the weight of my insecurities, the memories of failure with Ethan crashing in like unwelcome intruders.

"Come on," I whispered to myself, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. But the more I pushed, the further it slipped away. The spark fizzled, leaving me tense and unfulfilled, my body rebelling against the very urgency I forced upon it.

I thought about Ethan again, but his face blurred, replaced by Dr. Cole's. Those warm hazel eyes, the way his touch had ignited something forbidden during the exam—gentle yet I closed my eyes, imagining his voice murmuring reassurances, low and husky: "You're not broken, Mabel. Let me show you."

A soft sigh escaped me as warmth began to build, slow and teasing, my fingers circling with a rhythm inspired by his precise movements earlier.

I pictured him closer, his breath on my neck, hands guiding mine—exploring the sensitive spots he'd described so clinically, yet now it felt sinful, electric.

My back arched slightly, hips shifting as the heat intensified, coiling tighter in my belly. God, why did thinking of him make it feel so real? So alive? My free hand trailed up my thigh, tracing imaginary lines where his gloves had pressed, and a whimper slipped out, my body responding in ways it never had with Ethan.

I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow, hot tears soaking the fabric. Why couldn't I just let go? The desperation was a cage, locking me out of my own pleasure, amplifying the loneliness until it consumed me.

It was night already, sleep came in fits, haunted by dreams of touches I couldn't quite reach, and a name—Adrian—that whispered faintly in the background, unnoticed amid the chaos of my heart of which i could'nt resist...