Doctor Emily Morgan isn’t just a therapist who plays by the rules.
She breaks them. For whom? I don’t know yet.
But I think she has a saviour complex.
And I’m about to be her next project.
Whether she knows it yet or not.
Oh.
Movement.
I lean forward, breath caught, eyes locked on her as she yawns and arches her back like a cat.
Oh my god.
Code Beige.
CodefuckingBeige.
She’s rising—yes, rising—from the sofa.
This is thethirdtime she’s moved today. A landmark occasion. Shall I call the BBC?
Please. Do something exciting. Something feral. Give me chaos.
Please—
She walks into the bathroom.
Brilliant.
The unmistakable sound of a flush filters through the speakers. (Yes, there are microphones. Of course there are.)
Moments later, she emerges—hands damp, patting them dry on her shorts instead of using a towel like a civilised adult. Barbaric. Maddening. Somehow… endearing.
And then—
She lowers herself back onto the sofa.
Of course she does.
The circle of life, Emily Morgan edition.
She doesn’t move again until she finally retreats to her bedroom. I switch the feed without thinking, gaze locked, anticipation coiling low in my gut.
This part?
Not boring.
Well—technically, it should be.
But obsession has a way of warping things.
Emily, for all her beauty, doesn’t have the faintest clue how to make herself sexy. There’s no performance, no seduction. Just her. Unfiltered. Unaware.
She tugs off her oversized Oodie with zero ceremony. Her hair—so sleek and put-together all day—erupts in wild angles, a halo of chaos.