And he does.

We make love—not fuck, make love—slow and sweet and perfect. Like we have all the time in the world. Because we do.

No more sneaking around. No more hiding. No more shame.

Just us.

After, we lie tangled together in the dark, and I think about how we got here.

About the first session when I decided I was going to seduce him. About the weeks of pushing and testing and manipulating. About the moment he finally broke. About losing everything and finding each other anyway.

It's fucked up. I know that.

We're fucked up. The age gap. The therapist-patient history. The scandal.

But we're also happy....