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Heather had found, much to her chagrin, that since the demise of Fisk her newly-revived practice had started to attract the kinds of people that she would not necessarily wish to be friends with in real life. As a therapist it wasn't her job to judge, of course, but in the hazy recesses of her mind she vaguely remembered listening to women worried about their work-life balance, fathers learning how to accept their children, kids finding a way to cope at school... once upon a time these salt-of-the-earth people had frequented her office.
Word-of-mouth grew, and actors and athletes had started knocking on her door, until somehow, one day she had woken up and politicians and business leaders harbouring more secrets than all her previous clientele combined started to treat her office like their own confessional.
But it was not her place to judge.
Her duty was to listen and to help, staunch in the belief that anyone could become better and healthier internally than they had been the day before. Then Fisk had happened and... and Muse... and somewhere all that hope had died, had it not?
Yes, people could be better. But these days Heather believed that some forms of better were better than others. Some forms of better were less toxic, less destructive, less prone to bulldozing everything in its path. All that had come to pass in the past year had been the most expensive of lessons: that if someone was deluded enough, no amount of talking or kindness could prevent their ability to wreak untold destruction.
Yet as she watched the spoiled popstar in front of her yap on and on about her relationship issues, Heather wondered if her drastically reduced capacity for bullshit could be read upon her person for miles abound her, as though it radiated from her now in the same way that power and prestige had once shimmered around Fisk with every step that he took. It would certainly explain the most marked shift in her clientele since... since everything that had happened.
".... so I slapped him," drawled the girl, twisting her platinum blonde hair in-between her fingers. "He deserved it, because he cheated on me with that whore, you know? Like, what else was I meant to do? I told him not to before. I told him a bajillion times. If he cheats on me, I ruin him. I've asked my PR team to set up a bot campaign against him, like, right now. When he's being cancelled he'll realise I'm the best thing, the only one he should be running to."
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Heather knew she should be trotting out something about treating others kindly, about how revenge was an emotional reaction that would only be effective in the short term, and that Autumn would be repeating the behaviour she'd seen her mother do to her own father, and would she really want to be doing that?
But that old Heather was as much a part of her these days as the recording of a dead relative. The popstar's boyfriend was a punk, some basketball player who hadn't paid child support to two separate women for at least three years, and whilst this silly girl wouldn't leave him for reasons Heather could not understand, the man needed to learn a lesson.
"Make sure you're still able to take care of yourself," said Heather simply. "The public can be vicious. Don't let anger stop you from getting your full eight hours' sleep."
"I know," said the girl, turning her head from her place on the couch and flashing Heather a grin. "But that's what I have you for, isn't it, Dr Glenn?"
Heather vaguely saw a notification popup on her screen as she nodded dully to the girl. Her eyes scanned it:
I know I said I'd get pizzas for the oven, but I changed my mind. I'm making pasta. Trenette Al Pesto. And some antipasti. Shoot me a message back if you hate the idea.
Heather suppressed a grin as she felt a strange warmth wash over her upon reading the message. This time six months ago she might have written the day off as a bust and lazily picked up a frozen meal to shove in the oven.
But now...
"Dr Glenn?"
"Yes, Autumn," said Heather quickly, glancing up from her iPad to catch sight of the usually ditzy singer staring at her with mildly unnerving intensity. She smiled happily in return. She was a well-paying client, and she didn't care about what happened with Fisk, and for now, that was enough. "We all need someone that's there for us and yes, I am certainly here for you."
Buck narrowed his eyes as he weighed up the knife in his hand, assessing his handiwork. They weren't the cleanest cuts he'd ever done. Damn, there had been that one crime boss in Lagos where his knifework had been so clean that he didn't even know what Buck had done until he was bleeding out on the sand some thirty seconds later.
This was... fine by comparison. With the tip of his knife Buck swiftly stabbed downwards, holding up the piece of cubed potato for him to inspect with greater criticism. He sighed. It wasn't perfect...
But it was still the most productive thing he'd done all day.
Some eight hours ago, he'd been perfectly content to pick up some pizzas to take to Dr Glenn's - no, Heather's... she had been Heather for a while now - apartment that evening. She'd mentioned that her schedule was due to run late that night, and since his recovery, in part thanks to her care, he'd felt a sense of duty when it came to repaying her in some manner.
He'd figured out early on that she accepted food and his occasional protective presence on her couch - his choice, never objected to by her - in repayment.
Buck's mind wandered as he continued to cook. He told himself that repayment was all it was, his all-too constant presence in Heather's apartment. Repayment. And they got on, and she clearly appreciated his presence in her orbit at night, and if all this meant he didn't owe her anything down the line, the better.
A small voice in his head told him that repayment didn't need to carry on for twice the amount of time that she'd helped to take care of him.
Repayment did not mean he needed to be in her apartment right now, cooking her a three course meal.
Buck frowned to himself as he started to plate the charcuterie, handling every piece as carefully as though he was attempting to recreate a great piece of art on the fine china. After the day he'd had... he was a sitting duck in the interim mayor's office these days, and he knew it. Too dangerous to let go, a ticking time-bomb not to be trusted when it came to anything important. As a result, he'd spent this particular Thursday filing and doing accounts.
He cringed in on himself even at the thought. Sure, everyone had to do unsavoury things to survive but filing? He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so redundant. At least here, making a three course meal for no importance whatsoever, he felt he was actually doing something vaguely useful with the skills he'd built up over the years.
His ears pricked up at the sound of the front door to the apartment unlocking. In less than a second his hand was on the knife nearby; not tightly gripped - no, there was no need for that quite yet - but nevertheless, ready for -
"Oh, that smells delicious," said Heather, striding through the door, a sigh emitting from her lips.
Buck relinquished the knife the moment he heard her voice.
"It'll be done in around another fifteen minutes," he said. "I hope you're not too hungry."
"I could eat a horse," Heather confessed, taking a seat at the island. Buck could feel her eyes follow him as he moved around the kitchen, catching every gesture, every movement. It didn't unnerve him.
"If you want to have some of the charcuterie first..." he gestured.
"Oh no, it's okay," Heather said. "I'll wait until you're done."
For a brief second Buck's eyes flickered over to her, noted the earnestness in her face, the lack of pretence. Spending time in her company outside of Fisk's office had been like unravelling a ball of yarn.
In her suit, wandering the halls of the former mayor's office, she had seemed like marble, unbreakable even though the scars of strain and trauma were clear to anyone who knew how to look. Yet over time marble had given way to the bleeding heart that was under there somewhere, and it fascinated him no end, unable to pull away even though he knew he should.
Buck quickly looked back down at the pasta.
Or perhaps this was all just his listlessness talking. Yes, that was all it was.
"Again?" he asked, his eyes snapping open before she'd even entered the living room. "But you haven't woken at night in over a week."
"Yes," Heather replied as she wandered over to the grey couch upon which Buck lay, her hair still in a bun from sleep and her attention fixed solely on the phone in her hands.
"But I'm here," he said blearily, hearing the arrogance in his statement the moment the words left his lips. Perhaps somewhere in the back of his mind he had become too proud of the idea that she slept better knowing he was nearby, that he had made it his near-daily job even though it had been some time since she had openly asked him to stay.
It occurred to him, not for the first time in the past few weeks, that he was becoming too attached to being a part of Heather's life. Far, far beyond whatever personal or mental satisfaction he got from checking in on her, ensuring she was safe, actually able to do a good job when his actual job didn't want him to do a thing.
If only he knew a good therapist that might be willing to talk him through it. He internally rolled his eyes at himself.
"It's not you," said Heather, still staring at her phone. "Remember that basketball player?"
"I'm more of a cricket boy myself," shrugged Buck, moving over some of his blanket for Heather to share.
"Trey Harmon," she said, frantically scrolling, nodding in satisfaction to something Buck couldn't see. "Plays for the Knicks."
"Sure," shrugged Buck. "What of it?"
For a split second she scrolled a little more, a smile creeping up her face. Slowly, she lowered her phone and turned to Buck, deep satisfaction written clear as day all over her face.
"He's got a reputation," she explained. "Has had it for years, people gossiping that he sleeps with every woman that walks past him, has a bunch of kids but won't pay child support. Big shot player, earns millions a year but can't even do a peep for his progeny."
"One of that ilk, I understand," nodded Buck, still wondering where this was going.
"Videos have come out," Heather continued, her eyes glinting. "He's currently dating this popstar. Autumn -"
"Ah, the "Sugar For Your Love" singer, right? That pop song that plays every single time I go into Target? I think it's following me around on purpose..."
"Yes, America's sweetheart and all that. Videos of him cheating on her with multiple women have just dropped. He's being slaughtered online. Apparently a fan found one of his LA pads and egged it."
Buck watched Heather carefully as she nodded to herself in almost giddy approval, thoughts running behind her eyes that he was not privy to in the slightest.
"And this has you up at four in the morning because...?" he asked.
She jerked her head towards him as though he'd broken the veneer of a dream, her eyes locking onto his as though expecting judgement from him and yet, to her surprise, finding no more than curiosity.
"Some people think they can do what they want and leave destruction in their wake," she said. "There must be consequences for such actions. He's ruining the lives of multiple women and children right now. Sure, his team won't suspend him because they're spineless, but the public understands. In the end the right people will understand. He's getting what he deserves."
For a moment silence hung heavy in Heather's apartment, the displaced hit-man and the anxious therapist staring each other down.
She swallowed, her eyes locking onto his. Don't look into it.
But Buck had already understood. Whatever was going on here must be related to a client, and the only reason he'd dig into who her current clients were would be if he was worried one of them might be a flight risk.
An angry celebrity was of no interest to him.
He shrugged, his eyes not leaving hers. It's of no concern.
The fervour in her gaze slowly died down to a simmer, and Heather pushed off the blanket and got to her feet, her phone now hanging limply in her grasp. Without looking back at him, she padded softly back to the door of her bedroom. Buck watched her go just to be sure, as he had watched her go for so many nights of late, guaranteeing that she returned to the relative safe sanctuary of her bedroom.
"Buck?"
Heather stood at the doorway, her hand lightly on the doorframe, her back still to him.
"Do you want to sleep in here? A bed's more comfortable than a couch."
Buck's hand, mid-blanket readjustment, could not have frozen more instantly than if he'd been in sub-zero conditions at the ends of the Earth.
"Sorry?" he managed to rasp.
She turned back to face him, her face half hidden in shadow, save for her eyes, glittering at him from across the room.
"You can sleep in here if you like," she said, and he noted the firmness in her voice, not even a hint of bashfulness. "It can't be good for your back, being on the couch like that night after night."
"I wouldn't want to impose," he replied; slowly, carefully, unsure of why he was so hesitant, wondering why there was an alarm was ringing in the back of his mind that for some inexplicable reason he only wished to run towards.
Sure, she'd slept beside him on the couch a grand total of three times since he'd frequented her apartment on nights when she'd been particularly restless - he'd been diligent in keeping count - but that was all it had been, and he'd said nothing whilst she had made her choice. That he hadn't found her company objectionable in such a manner...
"Impose?" Heather replied, and to his surprise, he heard a laugh in the back of her voice. Then she turned and walked into her bedroom without a second glance.
Buck did not get a wink of sleep that night.
"... so I stroked his head all night as he cried, and I just focused on being the best girlfriend ever. You know, like, telling him that everything was going to be okay, that he didn't need to worry about a thing, that me and my team would protect him, yadda yadda yadda," babbled Autumn, the popstar's eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling.
"And how did that make you feel?" asked Heather, part of her mind elsewhere. Far, far elsewhere.
"Amazing," sighed the young woman. "You know, if he'd just listened to me and behaved himself, he wouldn't be in this position, losing the Nike sponsorship, his brand deal with Beats on the line... now he understands how much I love him, you know? No one loves him like I do."
"Sure," nodded Heather on autopilot. "Love is complicated."
She looked at the chat open in one corner of her iPad. It was ridiculous really, that she was so nervous at the prospect of sending a message, this message -
"It sure is," said the girl, flinging an arm over her forehead melodramatically. "I know just how much he loves me. But he couldn't stop being selfish! So selfish... now he understands what consequences actually means. I've asked my team to keep the bots and stuff going online for a few more weeks or so. Just so that he, like, really feels it, you know? For him to understand how bad the hate can really get, right? And to make him understand that my love is the only one that matters..."
Heather took a deep breath and typed. She'd asked this more than once before, it shouldn't be making her feel as anxious as it was -
Would you mind picking a few things up on your way home today?
She paused. Home? Was it too presumptuous to call it that? She'd called it that to him before without even thinking, but since she'd impulsively asked him to sleep beside her several nights prior Heather could not help but shake the idea that they were both dancing dangerously close to a line that she couldn't help but want to cross. No, smash to pieces.
But home? It was her home, yes, not his. His was over ten stops away on the metro, not -
The message flashed up on the screen:
What do you need?
Heather fought the urge to smile.
"I tell you, he's a typical Aries and as a Taurus I simply - oooh, Doctor Glenn!"
"Yes," Heather replied hastily, surprised by the call to attention. "What is it?"
"What's your star sign?" prattled the popstar. "I bet I could tell you everything about yourself!"
"I'm a Taurus as well," she replied patiently, happy to humour the girl. "My birthday's next Saturday."
Valeria emitted a scream so high that for a split second Heather seized up, her hand a moment away from darting towards the glass water bottle on the table next to her as some form of protection.
"Ohmigod no way!" screeched Autumn. "I have my concert at the Metlife next Saturday! No. Freaking. Way!"
Heather finally managed a breath and tapped out an response on her iPad to reground herself.
Could you make that pasta from last week? Or some risotto will do if you're tired.
She paused for a moment before sending. They weren't... anything. They were friends... yes. Friends... Heather curled her toes in irritation. This time last week she hadn't been overthinking every word. What even had she been thinking that night, asking him such a thing?
Pulling herself together, she tapped out a few more words before pressing send.
As long as it's not too much trouble.
"Doctor Glenn, you must come!" she heard Autumn say. "You've helped me so much, with that issue with the woman and the restraining order, and with my album sales, and with the love of my life. You must come. I'll make sure you have amazing seats. Come, won't you? Won't you?"
A new message appeared, Heather's eyes scanning it at once.
Say no more. It'll be sorted.
Attempting to ignore how warm the room currently felt, she looked back up into the grinning face of her client, who had swiftly swung her legs off the couch, all the better to sit up and stare hopefully at her therapist.
"Autumn, client doctor confidentiality is imp -" Heather began, but she was swiftly waved away.
"Oh, who cares about that?" asked the popstar dismissively. "My team can make anything go away. Poof! Don't even think on it. And I'd love you there. I'd really love it, for your birthday, too! And I'll give you a second ticket, okay? So that you can bring someone you want. Your friend or mom or boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever you're into, I'll make sure they can come with you. You will come, won't you? Won't you?"
Buck fought the urge to wince. He wasn't one for crowds. He could manage crowds, sure. He was exceptionally good at disappearing in a crowd if he had to. Mayor Fisk's gatherings had been a job, the crowd just the window dressing around his duties. But a mass full of screaming fans and lightsticks that looked like they could be weapons on their own?
In his downtime he preferred more quiet pursuits. But in the back of his mind he knew today was Heather's birthday and whilst a part of him - the sensible part of him, if he so dared admit as such - knew it was wiser to turn down her request that he come as her plus one, he remembered the last time he had remembered someone's birthday.
Daniel hadn't even made it to the end of the day.
Buck told himself that was why he accepted. To make sure that this time, at least, Heather would see it to midnight.
Yes, that was why, and not simply because he wanted to be in her company, or because he felt mildly smug that he was the one she asked.
No, heaven forbid, not any of that.
"It's an eclectic crowd, that's for certain," he said, looking around him as though he were at the zoo.
Either way, this was not his natural habitat. Neither was sitting in the mayoral office doing paperwork like some disregarded errand boy, but at least Buck understood the long game where that was concerned: lie low, stay alive, wait for the next big shift in power before being too hasty...
"I don't think I've ever seen you so discomfited," laughed Heather. Buck turned to his left where she was leaning against the bar, sipping on a orange juice, a wide smile playing upon her lips.
"I don't make it a habit to hang around rabid fanbases of anything," said Buck quietly. "It doesn't matter who or what it's for. Was I really the best person for you to bring along? Didn't your new PA -"
For a moment he saw the smile on her lips slip down a little, and Buck instantly regretted his words, even though he'd meant them sincerely in the moment. Sure, he near-lived with her at this point, but he'd felt this push and pull wind ever tighter in his gut for weeks, as though they were both on a knife edge, keenly aware the two of them had shared an experience that bound them together whilst also making it dangerously clear that the cleaner and quicker the break the better.
Yet she'd never said a thing, and between meals and fixed taps and long nights talking he'd put it off and put it off until now here he was, her plus one to an event. And he was pleased about it.
No no, no need to think. You're just making sure she makes it to the end of the day. Protection duties. She asked, and that's all you need to know. Focus.
"You didn't have to say yes," she said quietly, putting her glass down on the counter. "I need the bathroom."
The VIP box had never felt emptier as he watched her go, disappearing into the crowd of preening celebrities and their entourages and leaving him alone at the bar at the back of the suite.
It had been foolish, he considered, allowing himself to stay within the gravitational pull of her life for so long, unable to fully make sense of why he had been unable to walk away when he had done so dozens of times before. He was healed now, her night terrors mostly gone... and even if his presence in her apartment had helped her with that once upon a time, surely it did not matter now? Surely there was no reason for that to stop him pulling back?
There were thousands of doctors in New York who could help with that if she needed it. All of this was long past anything either of them owed one another, and if it was because it was good to feel useful when he was a sitting duck for the interim mayor, constantly watched... goddamnit, he should have pulled back weeks ago, and he knew it.
Buck sighed to himself as he flagged the bartender for another drink. Yet something in the back of his mind told him he mustn't, couldn't go, that for the first time in an age the silences he shared with her were ones where he did not have to be on guard. The feeling was more addictive than any drug, reeling him back in even as he knew he should snap the cord.
He glanced back towards the crowd, and caught sight of her talking to a man he did not recognise a few feet outside the entrance to the bathroom. Buck narrowed his eyes. The man must have been in his fifties, perhaps sixties, though he was not anyone that Buck recognised by face even though he'd accessed and scanned the guestlist several times the day before.
The man reached up to take Heather's wrist.
Without a second's thought Buck had left the side of the bar, crossing the room as quickly as he could manage. Four, five, six strides was all it took for him to close the space between them, Buck stepping in front of her to stand directly in the man's line of fire.
"Sorry mate," he said quickly. "Don't think you should be touching people you don't know, do you?"
"Who the hell are you to -" the man spluttered, his white handlebar moustache bristling with indignation as he quickly let go of Heather's wrist.
"Someone who thinks you probably shouldn't be manhandling people you don't know," Buck riposted.
"Jesus fucking christ, whatever man," scoffed the older man, backing off with a roll of his eyes. "You can't have any kind of fun these days."
"You didn't need to do that," he heard her say quietly, when he saw the man finally melt away into the crowd. "He was just a chatty promoter. I was handling it. I've had to deal with a million old men like him before."
"You shouldn't have to be handling it, Doctor," Buck sighed, turning around to face her. "If I can't at least be of use in this manner -"
"Why did you call me Doctor?" asked Heather sharply, sounding more angry at that than she'd done at anything else all evening.
"I -"
"You haven't called me Doctor for weeks," she said, her brows furrowed. "Why did you call me Doctor?"
Distance, said the voice in Buck's head. Distance. For her safety. And yours too. If you make a goddamn effort to start now, perhaps it'll make it easier in the long run...
"Heather," he replied, her name slipping out of his mouth before he could think sensibly. "It was just a slip in my mind. Heather."
She eyed him cautiously, before gracing him with a brief nod of acceptance and taking his arm. Buck did not resist in the slightest.
"Better," she said. "Much better."
"Doctor Glenn! Doctor Glenn!"
Heather wheeled around as Autumn - her face still full of glittery stage makeup - barrelled into her with delight.
"Did you love the concert? Did you? Did you?" she babbled enthusiastically, all but shaking Heather by the shoulders as she spoke.
"I did," replied Heather somewhat truthfully. "You sang beautifully."
"Awww, shucks, thank you! It's, like, totally thanks to you too, you know? My confidence would not be the same without you. Who did you bring with you, did they like it too?"
Heather leaned around to look where Buck was standing by the buffet table, helping himself to another glass of water, his gaze fixed on the phone on his hand.
"There," she gestured. "I brought -"
"Ohmigosh!" exclaimed the girl. "You brought your boyfriend! Or husband? Or partner? I'm cool with all kinds of titles, you know me. Sometimes Trey's my boyfriend, sometimes he's my partner, sometimes he's just boo... whatever, right, it's a free country, isn't it? Oh, good for you, Dr Glenn -"
"Well," Heather attempted to interject, hating how warm her face had instantly become. "He's just -"
"Ah, and your boyfriend looks so pretty too!" Autumn continued to chatter, before nudging Heather. "I am so happy for you Doctor Glenn - ohmigosh, did you get to meet Trey?"
"I haven't - "
"Over there," gestured the popstar, to where a tall young man was hunched over in the corner, looking sheepish as he spoke quietly to a few members of Autumn's PR team. "That's him right there. Isn't he such a dream? And so much more mellow now, now that he understands things, you know?"
Heather scanned the young woman's face as the latter continued to talk whilst barely taking breath, a calm, almost unfeeling satisfaction in her eyes. It was unnerving to see it in someone who professed on camera and in her songs to love everyone all the time. She saw it on her couch often too, people who deluded themselves into thinking they weren't playing a character.
Her mind cast back to last time she saw that kind of gaze in someone she actually trusted, it had been in Buck's own eyes, nothing but calculated focus and survival to be seen as he locked in on the target before him. But he knew who he was back then, and she trusted him because he did. She glanced back over at him, still looking at his phone as he sipped his water.
Somewhere, Heather was sure that he knew who he was even now, even as she saw and heard doubts coming from the shadows deep in the back of his mind, messing with his ability to see the clear and obvious path forward. She had felt it since her careless question all those days before. But Heather was sure, so very sure, that he had started to pull back when there was truly no need: not with her, never with her...
If only she could find a way to remind him.
"Yeah, that's my boy," she heard Autumn sigh, and Heather's attention turned back to her client. "He's my great love, you know, Doctor Glenn?"
"Of course," said Heather, barely aware of what she was saying.
"You helped me realise that, Doctor," smiled Valeria. "You really did."
"What's that?" Heather asked, the whisper of a frown between her brows.
"When it comes to love, you fight to claim it. There's nothing I wouldn't do for my Trey. Nothing in the world."
"That song is going to haunt my days until I die," said Buck, leaning forward against the sofa as Heather locked her front door, threw the keys in a bowl on the kitchen island, and crossed the living room.
"Yeah, I think the lyrics 'pay pay pay pay pay, babe babe babe babe babe...' are set up to be a neverending earworm," laughed Heather, walking into her bedroom and dropping her bag in a corner.
"Oh don't," she heard him groan.
"I must be grateful to Autumn. Now I know exactly to annoy you if ever I need it," she teased, loosening her hair and grabbing a brush to get rid of the tangles.
"Is that more or less than how much it irritates you if I call you Doctor?" he replied back.
Heather dropped the brush at once and strode back towards her doorway to her bedroom.
"Don't call me that," she said, her eyes darkening as he drew into view. "You're not my patient. We're... you're not my patient."
To her satisfaction she saw him swallow at her words, felt him return her gaze with the same intensity that she hoped now burned through him.
"And if I do call you that, what then?" he asked softly.
"I'll be most displeased," she replied at once.
"And what exactly are the consequences for that?"
Heather cleared her throat, deeply irritated at how dry her mouth had suddenly become, at how the insides of her stomach seemed to want to squelch in upon themselves if she couldn't just -
Fight to claim it.
"You should sleep in here tonight," she said firmly.
"That wouldn't be wise," he replied, every syllable clipped as he spoke.
"Why so?"
"We've become far too close already."
"Well that's no reason to stop," Heather countered silkly. "Sleep in here tonight."
A single eyebrow raised in response. Another chess piece moved across the board, but this particular game was one that Heather was determined not to lose.
"And what then?" he finally managed. "You'll take the right side and I'll take the left?"
"Ah, I think you'll find there are a multitude of ways we can figure that out," said Heather simply. "Do you not want to?"
The air between them burned as they both fought to read one another in silence, as they had done a multitude of times before. Yet for once neither dared to reveal their hand - too much, too quickly, too... vulnerable -
"It's not a question of whether or not I want to -" Buck began.
"You didn't answer me," Heather demanded. "Don't you want to? It's a yes or no question."
Heather smiled to herself as she saw him break the glance, saw him look away as he coughed and straightened up on the couch, his hands flexing as he did so.
"Say I do," he said, his face inscrutable, stoic to the last. But his eyes... it was always in the eyes... Heather didn't bother to hide her satisfaction as she leaned casually against the doorframe. "Then -"
"Sleep in here tonight," she repeated, gesturing to the doorway. "Come."
His eyes never leaving hers, he slowly stood up from the couch and walked towards her, not pausing in step until he was in the doorway. His head bent over hers as, with one arm taking his weight on the wood behind, he gazed down at her: and Heather saw him wanting. Around them the air continued to burn.
"Are you giving me orders? You dare, just because it's your birthday?" he whispered.
"Huh," Heather smirked. "So you did know."
"Of course," he said quietly. "But birthdays can be... ill-fated. I didn't wish to say anything if you did not mention it as such. I wish you a good one nevertheless, if you're not offended by me offering the platitude to begin with."
"I'm not, and I appreciate it," she replied. They were so close to crossing that burning line now, so close... "Now -"
"Don't give me orders, Doctor," he warned.
Heather's fingers danced across his jawline and pulled him close towards her. Her heart beat a mile a minute as their faces ended up but an inch apart, her grip not wanting to let him go; and the look in his eyes told her that she'd got what she wanted, that she'd successfully reminded him that he did not need to protect her from himself, that with her he could be whoever he wanted.
"And if I ordered you to kiss me?" she asked. "What then?"
In Doctor Heather Glenn's apartment, the couch remained cold and unused every night thereafter.