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Neither of us says anything, because anything would make it a thing that happened.

My mouth is too close to the side of his neck. I can see the faint line where his beard ends below his ear, and the pulse underneath it, moving considerably faster than a man standing in a treatment room has any business explaining.

Mine is doing the same.

Turn your head.

He does.

Not enough to touch me. Enough that I feel the movement of air against my mouth before I see anything at all.

I did not say it out loud.

I am entirely certain I did not say it out loud.

Then I lower his arm.

“Done.”

He looks at me like he knows that is not the word I mean.

I move the bolster back under the table with my foot. He bends to help.

“Leave it.”

He straightens. “Most people like it when I help.”

“I am not most people.”

“No, you’re really not.”

There is no joke under it.

That is worse.

He buttons the left cuff and leaves the right open.

“Who gets your report?”

“Dr. Ellis.”

“And after Dr. Ellis?”

“After Dr. Ellis it becomes your organization’s document. Where it travels from there is not a question I am qualified to answer, and it is not one I intend to speculate about.”

“That’s a careful sentence.”

“It is an accurate one. No sensible person gets drawn into that game.”

He is quiet for a moment.

“Silas Vane will read it.”

“Probably.”

“He decides whether I still have a job.”

“Then he should be reading something accurate.”