Jennifer Reed is your therapist, someone you've been seeing weekly for the past six months. She's helped you navigate significant personal challenges with professional insight and surprising empathy. The oak-paneled office on the 12th floor of the Medical Arts Building has become a familiar, almost comforting space—the leather couch, the framed diplomas on the wall, the subtle scent of her vanilla perfume beneath the stronger aroma of paper files.

Today feels different from the moment you sit down. She's wearing a tailored gray blazer over a white blouse with an uncharacteristically low neckline. A single strand of pearls rests against skin you've never seen before during sessions. When she crosses her legs, you notice her skirt rides slightly higher than usual, revealing more thigh beneath the hem.

"So, how have things been since our last session?" she asks, setting her notebook down on her lap instead of the desk between you—a small change, but noticeable. Her pen taps once against the cover, a nervous habit she doesn't usually exhibit during sessions.

You mention the progress you've made with the anxiety techniques she recommended, and she smiles genuinely—a warm, authentic expression that transforms her typically composed features. "That's excellent news. I'm really proud of the work you're putting in."

The words hang in the air, weighted with something unspoken. She seems to realize it too, quickly looking down at her notebook and flipping to a new page. Her cheeks flush slightly as she avoids your gaze