Page 14 of The Flames Between Us

"Perhaps," I acknowledge reluctantly. "He's... not what I expected. There's a gentleness beneath the tough exterior. And yes, he's objectively attractive."

"Physical attraction to patients happens to every therapist at some point," Diane says matter-of-factly. "The ethical question isn't whether we feel it, but how we handle it."

"I would never act on it," I say quickly. "That's not even a question."

"I know that. But sometimes unacknowledged attraction leads to unconscious boundary violations—like sharing more than we normally would."

The observation stings because it's accurate. "So what do I do? Refer him to another therapist?"

"Not necessarily. Ask yourself: Is this attraction interfering with your ability to provide effective treatment? Would transferring him do more harm than good at this point in his therapy?"

I think about Ollis's progress today, his willingness to try exposure work, the trust building between us. "Transferring him now could reinforce his initial resistance to therapy. He's just starting to engage meaningfully with the process."

"Then perhaps what's needed is heightened awareness on your part," Diane suggests. "More deliberate attention to boundaries, consultation when needed, honest self-reflection."

"And if the attraction persists or intensifies?"

"Then we revisit the question of referral." Her voice softens. "Everly, you're an excellent therapist. Your concern about this shows your commitment to ethical practice. Trust yourself to handle this appropriately."

After we hang up, I sit with my wine, contemplating Diane's advice. She's right that awareness is the first step—acknowledging the attraction defuses some of its power. And she's also right that disrupting Ollis's therapy now could do more harm than good.

Still, I need clearer boundaries going forward. No more overtime sessions. No more personal disclosures beyond what's therapeutically necessary. Professional distance doesn't mean coldness, but it does mean keeping my personal reactions in check.

I finish my wine and head to bed, setting these resolutions firmly in my mind. Tomorrow, I'll review Ollis's file with fresh eyes, planning our next session with meticulous attention to therapeutic goals and appropriate interventions.

As I drift toward sleep, however, I can't help but wonder if he's practicing the grounding techniques I taught him. If he's finding any relief from the memories that haunt him. If our session today moved him closer to reclaiming the identity that means so much to him.

These thoughts aren't entirely professional, but they're not entirely personal either. They exist in that complicated space where genuine care for a patient's wellbeing meets awareness of one's own humanity—the space all therapists navigate daily, usually with more grace than I managed today.

Besides, Ollis deserves a therapist who can help him heal, not one distracted by inappropriate feelings. And I owe it to myself to maintain the professional integrity that's guided my practice until now.

With that resolution firmly in mind, I finally fall asleep, dreaming of mountain climbs and burning buildings and paths that fork in unexpected directions.

Morning

Morning arrives with soft light filtering through the curtains in my bedroom. I wake before my alarm, thoughts of yesterday's session with Ollis still lingering in my mind despite my best efforts to compartmentalize.

After a restless night, my usual routine feels hollow—the quiet meditation, the selection of a professional outfit, the solitary breakfast at my kitchen island while reviewing patient notes. The empty hours before my first afternoon appointment stretch before me, promising too much time for unwanted rumination.

"Change of scenery," I mutter to myself, making a spontaneous decision. "That's what I need."

Lou's Diner sits at the center of Cedar Falls, a local institution with worn vinyl booths and the best coffee in town. I rarely indulge in breakfast out—a holdover from my residency days when every minute and dollar counted—but today feels like an exception.

The diner buzzes with the comfortable energy of mid-morning: the after-rush crowd of retirees, telecommuters with laptops, and the occasional parent with a toddler. I slide into a corner booth, grateful for the relative privacy while still being part of the ambient community.

"Well, if it isn't Dr. Morgan!" Lou himself approaches, coffeepot in hand. Though pushing seventy, he still works the morning shift, refusing to retire from the business he built decades ago fully. "Don't usually see you on weekdays."

"Thought I'd treat myself," I reply with a smile. "And no one makes pancakes like you do, Lou."

"Blueberry, right? And coffee black?"

I nod, touched that he remembers my order from my infrequent visits. As he shuffles away to place my order, I pull out my phone, scrolling through emails to maintain the illusion that I'm here on legitimate business rather than escaping my own thoughts.

The bell above the diner door jingles, but I barely glance up—until I hear the distinctive rumble of familiar male voices and the heavy tread of work boots on linoleum. My stomach drops as I slowly raise my eyes.

Three firefighters in full turnout gear—minus helmets—have entered the diner. Their faces and gear show smudges of soot, suggesting they've just come from a call. Even without recognizing the broad shoulders and tall frame at the center of the trio, something in me instantly knows it's him.

Ollis stands flanked by two colleagues—the younger man from the photo in his file must be his brother Lewis, while the stocky, military-straight firefighter on his other side I don't recognize. They're laughing about something, the camaraderie obvious in their body language.

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