Selene’s POV
Dr. Carmen Reyes has the kind of office that makes you feel immediately judged. Diplomas arranged with geometric precision. Plants that are somehow thriving despite the fluorescent lighting. A desk so organized it looks like a magazine spread.
I'm sitting across from her holding two files that represent six years of my professional life and approximately forty-seven ethical violations waiting to happen.
"I need to transfer these clients to you," I say, setting Axel's and Mateo's files on her immaculate desk. "Effective immediately."
Carmen doesn't touch them. Just studies me with those sharp brown eyes that miss nothing. She's been the Sirens' secondary psychologist for three years, brought in when my caseload expanded. We're colleagues. Friendly, even. But right now she's looking at me like I'm a case study.
"Nielsen and Velasco." She says their names carefully. "The ones you're living with."
News travels fast. Or maybe it was the joint statement we released. Or maybe someone saw us at the grocery store again. Doesn't matter—the whole facility knows.
"Yes."
"And you're recusing yourself because..."
"Because it's the ethical thing to do." The words come out rehearsed, clinical. "I can no longer maintain appropriate therapeutic boundaries. Dual relationships compromise objectivity. The APA guidelines are clear."
Carmen nods slowly. "The guidelines are clear. But I'm asking why you specifically are doing this now."
I don't like the question. It implies I should have done it sooner. It implies I've already crossed lines I can't uncross.
She's not wrong.
"We've been... involved for several months," I admit. "I should have transferred them earlier. I didn't because—" I stop, searching for words that don't make me sound like a complete disaster. "Because I told myself I could compartmentalize. Professional Selene at work, personal Selene at home. Clean separation."
"And can you?"
"No." The admission scrapes something raw. "No, I can't."
Carmen finally picks up the files, flipping through pages I know by heart. Axel's intake notes from two years ago, when he was all ice and silence. Mateo's breakthrough session last spring, when he finally talked about his father. Progress notes, treatment plans, the documented history of two men learning to be vulnerable.
I wrote every word. I know their wounds better than my own.
"Their progress has been significant," Carmen observes. "Nielsen especially. His affect regulation scores improved dramatically over the past eighteen months."
"He's been doing the work."
"With you."
"Yes." My throat tightens. "With me."
She closes the files, setting them aside with careful precision. "Selene, I have to ask some questions. For documentation purposes. They may feel intrusive."
"I understand."
"When did the personal relationship begin?"
I count backward. The grocery store, the dinners, the coffee deliveries that started it all, the night Axel made Elio laugh for the first time. "Approximately four months ago. Though the... awareness predates that."
"Awareness?"
"Attraction. Recognition that our interactions were becoming less clinical and more—" I gesture vaguely. "More."
"And during that period, you continued providing therapeutic services?"
"Yes." The word tastes like failure.
"Were there sessions that felt compromised? Moments when personal feelings affected your clinical judgment?"
I think about the session after Mateo's first night at my apartment. How I'd analyzed his body language for signs of regret while pretending to discuss performance anxiety. How I'd searched Axel's face for confirmation that what happened between us meant something.
"Yes," I say quietly. "There were moments."
Carmen writes something in her notebook. The scratch of pen against paper feels like a verdict being rendered.
"I'm not here to judge you," she says, looking up. "Dual relationships happen. We work with elite athletes in high-pressure environments—emotional intensity is part of the landscape. What matters is that you're addressing it now."
"Before anyone files a complaint."
"Before anyone gets hurt." She sets down her pen. "Including you."
I wasn't expecting kindness. It throws me off balance more than accusations would have.
"I'll need time to review their files thoroughly," Carmen continues. "Establish my own therapeutic rapport. They may experience some regression during the transition—that's normal. I'd recommend you avoid discussing their sessions with them at home."
"I know. I wrote the protocols."
"I'm aware." A ghost of a smile. "I'm also aware that writing protocols and following them are very different things. Especially when you love someone."
The word lands like a physical impact. Love. I haven't said it out loud yet. Haven't let myself think about it in concrete terms.
"I'll follow them," I say, standing because sitting feels impossible suddenly. "Thank you for taking this on."
"Selene." Carmen catches my arm before I can reach the door. "This doesn't diminish what you accomplished with them. The work was real. The progress was real. You just have to let someone else carry it forward."
I nod because speaking would crack something open that I need to stay closed. At least until I'm alone.
The hallway outside her office is busy—staff moving between departments, players heading to training, the normal chaos of a professional sports facility. I keep my head down, walking fast, trying to outpace the feeling building in my chest.
Then I see him.
Mateo is coming from the opposite direction, gym bag over his shoulder, curls damp from practice. He's laughing at something Jordan said, that full-body laugh that makes everyone around him smile too.
Then he spots me and his whole face changes—that automatic brightening, the smile that's just for me, the one that says I see you across any distance.
And I can't touch him.
Not here. Not now. Not with Carmen's questions still echoing and the files I just handed over and the weight of everything we're risking. Anyone could be watching. Everyone probably is.
He slows as we pass each other. His hand brushes my elbow—barely a touch, could be accidental to anyone watching. But his eyes hold mine for a fraction too long, and I feel the contact like electricity even through my blazer sleeve.
"Hey." His voice is soft. Careful.
"Hey."
We keep walking. Opposite directions. Professional distance maintained.
My office feels smaller when I reach it. I close the door, lean against it, and let myself feel what I've been holding back.
I understood them in ways no other therapist will. Knew when Axel's silence meant processing versus shutting down. Knew when Mateo's jokes were deflection versus genuine humor. Knew the exact tone that made them both relax, the questions that opened doors instead of closing them.
That knowledge was part of how I loved them. And I just gave it away.
My phone buzzes. Text from Mateo:
You okay? You had your "pretending to be fine" face on.
I stare at the message. Of course he noticed. Of course he read me in the two seconds we passed each other.
That's what I'm losing. That's what I'm protecting.
I type back: Just a hard meeting. Tell you about it tonight.
Three dots appear. Then: Axel's making that chicken thing you like. Come home when you can.
Home. The word shouldn't hit this hard. But it does.
I pocket my phone and pull up my schedule for the afternoon. Clients to see. Work to do. Professional Selene back in her box, where she performs competence and pretends the personal doesn't exist.
But underneath the clinical mask, something aches. Like I've amputated a limb and I'm only now realizing how much I needed it to walk.
The sacrifice was necessary. Essential, even.
That doesn't make it hurt any less.