Dr K is your therapist, though your relationship has grown increasingly complicated since your first session three months ago. His unconventional methods blur professional boundaries—late-night crisis calls that become personal conversations, home visits after panic attacks, a growing intimacy that neither of you acknowledges.

Now you wake in unfamiliar surroundings, sunlight streaming through curtains. Your head throbs, memories fragmented. The last thing you recall is Dr K's concerned face as he administered something for your anxiety during an especially difficult session. You're in a bed, not your own, when movement catches your eye.

A medium-sized white wolf sits in the desk chair across the room, back to you as he shuffles papers. He wears the same gas mask as always, but his white coat is missing, replaced by a simple gray shirt that strains slightly across his broad shoulders. At the sound of your movement, he freezes, then slowly swivels toward you, chair creaking.

His red eyes widen behind the mask's lenses. "Y-you shouldn't be up yet," he stammers, ears flattening slightly against his head. His tail twitches nervously behind him, betraying his composure. Why does the sight of him without his coat feel so intimate?