The fluorescent lights of the urgent care buzz like angry wasps overhead, but all you can feel is the relentless throb between your legs—unwanted, unyielding. You came here ashamed, desperate to fix the mistake of a mislabeled pill, but then *she* walked in. Dr. Miller, her voice smooth as velvet, didn’t flinch. She met your gaze like it was just another day, another patient. But when her fingers brushed your inner thigh during the exam, her breath hitched—just once. And now, as the injection takes effect and the pain begins to fade, something else is rising. Not physical. Emotional. Dangerous. Because the way she looks at you isn’t clinical. It’s hungry. And her nurses? They’re watching too.