Page 13 of The Flames Between Us

"Yes," I confirm. "And Ollis? The exposure work we did today—try practicing those grounding techniques when memories surface. Focus on physical sensations in the present moment."

He nods, his expression serious again. "I will."

After he leaves, I stand in my empty office, unsettled by the session's unexpected turn. I've shared personal anecdotes with patients before when therapeutically appropriate, but this felt different—more revealing, more personal.

I sink back into my chair, pressing my palms against my eyes beneath my glasses. What was I thinking? Four years of clinical practice, and suddenly I'm violating the careful professional distance I've always maintained.

My receptionist's gentle knock interrupts my self-recrimination. "Dr. Morgan? Your four o'clock is here."

"Thank you, Jim. I'll be right out." I take a deep breath, centering myself before my next appointment.

For the rest of the afternoon, I maintain impeccable professional boundaries, focused entirely on my patients' needs. But beneath the surface, questions linger.

What was it about Ollis Crawford that prompted such uncharacteristic disclosure? And more troublingly, why did it feel so natural to open up to him?

By the time my last patient leaves at 6:30, I'm mentally exhausted. I gather my notes, lock my office, and bid Jim goodnight before heading to my car.

The evening air is cold, hinting at the approaching autumn. Usually, this is my favorite time of day—the transition from professional Dr. Morgan to just plain Everly, with a quiet evening ahead to decompress.

Tonight, however, I can't seem to leave work behind. Ollis's session replays in my mind as I drive to my modest house on the east side of Cedar Falls. I remember the way he pushed through his discomfort during the exposure exercise, the vulnerability in his voice when he spoke about Eva, and the fierce look in his eyes when I shared my own story.

At home, I change into leggings and an oversized sweater, pour a glass of red wine, and curl up on my sofa with my latest journal article. The words blur as my mind drifts back to the session. I set the journal aside, acknowledging that professional reading isn't happening tonight.

Instead, I reach for my phone and pull up the contact I need.

"Everly!" Dr. Diane Winters answers on the third ring. "What a lovely surprise. How are you?"

Diane was my supervisor during my clinical training, a mentor who became a friend as I established my practice. Now in her sixties, she's the wisest clinician I know.

"I'm well," I reply. "But I could use some consultation on a case if you have time."

"Of course. Let me just finish serving Maggie her dinner, and I'll be all yours."

I hear her murmuring to her elderly golden retriever in the background, then the sound of her settling into what I imagine is her favorite armchair.

"Now then," she says. "Tell me what's troubling you."

I take a sip of wine. "I have a new patient—a firefighter with PTSD following a traumatic loss on the job. He's making good progress, surprisingly receptive to exposure work despite initial resistance to therapy."

"Sounds promising. What's the concern?"

I hesitate. "I shared personal information with him today. About my transition from medicine to psychology."

"You've shared that before when therapeutically relevant," Diane points out. "Is there something different about this instance?"

"It felt different," I admit. "More... personal. I found myself wanting to reciprocate his openness rather than making a calculated clinical decision."

"I see." There's no judgment in her tone, just thoughtful consideration. "And this firefighter—what's your read on why he evoked this response?"

I consider the question carefully. "He's perceptive. Sees past professional facades. And there are parallels between his situation and my own experience—the identity tied to saving lives, the trauma of failure."

"Countertransference is natural in these situations," Diane says gently. "Our own histories inevitably color our therapeutic relationships."

"I know that intellectually," I sigh. "But this feels more complicated."

There's a pause on the line. "Everly, forgive me for asking, but is there an attraction component to this reaction?"

The question lands like a stone in still water, rippling through my carefully maintained professional self-image. My immediate instinct is to deny it, but Diane deserves honesty.

---