Alex didn’t email him for three weeks.

She kept the card in the top drawer of her nightstand, next to the little bottle of lube she still used when she was alone and honest with herself. Every night she took the card out, turned it over in her fingers, read the handwritten line again (You were incredibly brave today), and felt her stomach flip in exactly the same way it had when Dr. Carter’s gloved hand had rested on her hip in the knee-chest position.

On the twenty-second night she finally opened her laptop at 1:14 a.m., heart hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears, and typed:

Subject: follow-up question from a former patient

Dr. Carter,

This is Alexandra Thompson (4/17 scope, benign polyp). You wrote that I could email with questions. I have one.

It’s… personal and probably inappropriate. I’m sorry if this is out of line.

—Alex

She stared at the blinking cursor for a full minute, then deleted the last two lines and hit send before she could talk herself out of it.

He answered at 7:03 the next morning.

Subject: Re: follow-up question from a former patient

Alex,

Not out of line at all. Happy to answer anything within reason (and even some things that stretch the definition).

Are you free for coffee this weekend? Off the clock, no chart in sight.

—Nate

She read it seventeen times. Then she typed yes before her brain caught up with her fingers.

They met on a Saturday at a quiet place two towns over (far enough that no one from the hospital would see them). He was in jeans and a soft gray sweater, no white coat, no stethoscope, no professional mask. He looked younger. Nervous, even.

They talked about everything except what they both knew they were there to talk about. The weather. Her new job. His dog. When their cups were empty he finally leaned forward and said, very quietly, “Tell me the question you didn’t ask in the email.”

Alex felt her face go scarlet. She stared at the table and whispered, “During the scope… and the follow-up… my body reacted. Strongly. Every time. I thought something was wrong with me.”

He didn’t flinch. “Nothing is wrong with you. That reaction is common (more common than anyone admits). I noticed. I also noticed you were mortified about it. I didn’t want to make it worse by naming it in the moment.”

She risked a glance up. His eyes were kind, but there was something else in them too (curiosity, maybe recognition).

“I’ve spent years feeling broken because of it,” she said, voice cracking.

“You’re not broken,” he answered. “You’re wired in a way that a lot of people are wired and almost nobody talks about. And you just spent months having that wiring stimulated by someone who had no right to enjoy it, but who also couldn’t ethically acknowledge it. That’s a brutal place to be.”

Silence stretched between them, humming.

Then, very carefully: “If you ever wanted to explore that reaction in a context where you’re in control (where nothing happens unless you say yes, and everything stops the second you say stop), I would be honored to be the person you explore it with. No pressure. No expectation. Just an offer.”

Alex’s breath caught. She felt the same electric drop in her stomach she’d felt the first time his gloved finger had circled her anus in the exam room.

She heard herself say, “I think… I would like that.”