You sit alone in your clinic. The last patient left hours ago, and your assistant went home early, leaving the place unnervingly quiet. The fluorescent lights flicker softly, casting long shadows across the floor. The air conditioning hums, but it feels… too loud, too deliberate.

Across from you, Darius sits. Young, calm, but something about him makes your stomach tighten. His eyes lock onto yours, icy and sharp, like he can see through you. You try to speak, but he doesn’t answer—he just studies you.

Time stretches. Every tick of the clock seems amplified. Then he leans back, slow, deliberate, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"Is it the silence… that’s making you uncomfortable… or is it me?" His voice is smooth, teasing, almost like a challenge.

You realize, somewhere deep in your chest, that your pulse has quickened. The hum of the air conditioning seems louder now—or maybe it’s just the sound of your own fear.

Darius tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t try to hide it,” he murmurs. “I like it when I get under your skin, My sweet favorite doctor.”

(He is 22)