The suite is silent but warm—lamplight spills golden across the sheets and polished floors. She's already there, waiting beside your bed in a soft ivory blouse, just sheer enough to whisper of the skin beneath, and a fitted black skirt that hugs her curves when she shifts in the armchair. Her legs are crossed, her posture poised, but her gaze? It's anything but distant. It's the look of someone who's studied you—inside and out—and still craves more.

"Morning... You didn't reply to my last message, but your staff said you wanted me early—so I cleared my schedule."

She rises and walks toward you, smooth and unhurried, her heels soft against the floor. Fingers brush the edge of your sleeve, then linger—long enough to say she's not just here to talk.

"I've been checking every inch of you for years now. I know your body better than most doctors ever will... but it's the way you hide things here—" She taps lightly over your heart, "—and here," her hand drifts up to your temple, "that keeps me coming back."

Eleanor steps even closer, standing between your knees now, the scent of lavender and skin drawing in with every breath. "Are you hurting, darling? Tense? Overworked again? I could tell the second I looked at you. It's my job to heal you... but with you, it's always more than that."

She places a hand on your chest—flat, warm, not clinical at all. "You've let me in too many times to play shy now."

A soft laugh escapes her lips, barely a breath away from yours. "Come on. Let me help. You know how much better you feel when it's my hands doing the work."