I stood in front of my mirror the next morning, determined. The cream card was hidden in my drawer, but its words were burned into my mind.

Next time, wear your hair down. Leave the top button of your blouse undone.

I wasn’t going to do it. I brushed my hair into a neat, low ponytail and chose a modest cream blouse with a high neckline. It was safe, respectable, me. For a moment, I studied my reflection. It was too severe. I frowned and pulled the elastic free, letting my hair fall softly over my shoulders. This was better. I looked less tired. I reached for my coat, then paused. The collar of my blouse felt strangely tight. Annoyed, I slipped one finger beneath it and undid the top button. I felt immediate relief.

I paused.

I stared at myself. No. With a flush of embarrassment, I buttoned it again, then hesitated. It looked stiff and too formal. Slowly, I undid it once more.

“Stop it,” I whispered to my reflection. But I didn’t change it back.

At university, I tried to focus during my pharmacology lecture. The professor was going over dosage calculations for IV medications, something I usually excelled at. Today, the numbers blurred together. Every few minutes, I found myself touching the open collar of my blouse or running my fingers through my loose hair.

Halfway through the lecture, during break time, Sophia slid into the seat beside me, dropping her bag with a dramatic sigh.

“Girl, you look like you didn’t sleep again,” she whispered. “But also… kind of hot? The hair is working for you. New look?”

I shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Just felt like a change.”

Emily, sitting on my other side, leaned over and studied me more closely. “The changes suit you,” she said softly.

I smiled. “Thanks?”

“I mean it. You look good. Just tired,” Emily added gently.

After classes, I went straight home instead of staying late at the library like I usually did. The house was quiet when I arrived. Mom was still at work, but Dad’s car was in the driveway. I stopped short. He was rarely home this early. A small knot tightened in my stomach as I stepped inside. I found him in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with precise, practiced movements. He glanced up as I entered.

“You’re home early,” I said before I could stop myself.

“So are you,” he observed. His eyes flicked over me, loose hair and open collar, before returning to the cutting board. “There was a schedule change. You’ve been getting home earlier than usual lately. And you’re not bringing any textbooks downstairs anymore. That’s new.”

I moved beside him and started rinsing rice, hoping the task would hide my nerves.

“I’m just tired.”

“Mm.” The knife resumed its steady rhythm. Dad continued, voice deceptively casual. “I ran into Professor Lang today. She mentioned you seemed distracted during your last rotation.”

My hands stilled under the running water.

“Said you almost mixed up a patient’s chart.”

“I’m handling it,” I said quietly.

Dad set the knife down and turned to face me fully. “I’m not asking if you’re handling it. I’m asking what’s causing it.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable. The worst was I couldn’t meet his eyes.

************************

Later that night, I sat at my desk trying to study. My textbook lay open. The pages smelled faintly of paper and highlighter ink, but I hadn’t turned a single page in nearly half an hour. Instead, I kept replaying the feeling of Dominic’s fingers in my hair. The low approval in his voice. The way my entire body had ached for more of his touch even while my mind screamed at me to run.

I opened the drawer slowly. The cream card was tucked between two notebooks. As soon as my fingers touched the thick, smooth paper, a shiver ran down my spine. My thumb brushed over the elegant, precise handwriting. The ink felt slightly raised beneath my fingertip. I read the words again, slowly.

Next time, wear your hair down. Leave the top button of your blouse undone. You looked beautiful on your knees. I wonder what else you’ll choose to show me.

My breath hitched. Heat flooded my cheeks and travelled down my neck, pooling somewhere deep and difficult to ignore. The memory of his deep voice saying those words in the quiet lounge wrapped around me like warm velvet. I could almost feel the weight of his hand in my hair again, the slow, deliberate strokes that had made my scalp tingle and my thighs press together.

Shame burned through me, sharp and hot, but it couldn’t drown out the deep, aching longing. I wanted that quiet again. That terrifying relief. That moment when the constant pressure in my chest had finally gone still. And I hated myself for wanting it. I closed the card and pressed it against my chest. The thick paper was cool against my skin through the thin fabric of my blouse. My heart beat hard and fast beneath it.

This has to stop.

But even as I thought about it, I caught myself touching the open collar of my blouse again. The one I had unconsciously left undone all day. A soft, defeated sound escaped me. I was already slipping. And some frightened, desperate part of me didn’t want to stop.