They didn’t book a suite this time.

Instead, Nate invited her to his apartment (the first time she had ever seen where he lived). No medical table, no instruments, no scrubs. Just low lamplight, a wide bed with clean white sheets, and the two of them in soft T-shirts and underwear like any ordinary couple.

Alex stepped inside, looked around at the quiet, normal space (books, a slightly messy kitchen, a dog bed in the corner), and felt something huge shift in her chest.

He closed the door and leaned against it, watching her carefully.

“Tonight,” he said, “there’s no scene. No roles. No equipment. Just us. Whatever you need.”

She nodded, throat tight.

They sat on the couch first, knees touching. She cried almost immediately (not the sharp, shocked tears of release she was used to, but slow, rolling ones that felt like they had been waiting years to fall).

“I keep waiting to feel dirty,” she whispered. “After everything we’ve done. After watching myself like that. I keep waiting for the shame to hit. And it… doesn’t come.”

Nate brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Because there’s nothing shameful about any of it. You took the thing that hurt you and you made it yours. That’s not dirty. That’s sacred.”

She laughed once, wet and shaky. “I used to think my body had a secret defect. Like my brain short-circuited the first time someone put something up my ass and decided it was supposed to feel good. I thought I was broken forever.”

“And now?”

“Now I think…” She took a breath that felt like the first full one in years. “Now I think my body just knew what it needed long before I had the words or the safety to ask for it. And you gave me both.”

He pulled her gently into his lap, and she curled there like a child, face against his neck.

“I’m not afraid of doctors anymore,” she said against his skin. “I’m not afraid of my own reflection. I’m not afraid of wanting this. I’m not afraid of any of it.”

He was quiet for a long time, arms wrapped around her, rocking her almost imperceptibly.

“I love you,” he said (simple, steady, no drama). “All of you. The parts that needed healing and the parts that did the healing.”

She went very still.

Then she lifted her head, looked him straight in the eyes, and said it back.

They made love that night (slow, ordinary, face-to-face, no gloves, no lube, no mirrors). Just skin on skin, breath shared, quiet gasps and whispered names. When she came it was gentle and rolling, nothing like the sharp explosions of the scenes, but deeper somehow, like the final piece clicking into place.

Afterward she lay with her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.

“I think I’m done,” she said softly.

He knew exactly what she meant. “With the scenes?”

“With needing them to feel whole. I think… I think I’m whole now.”

He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Then we’re done. And if you ever want one again -- for fun, for memory, for any reason -- we’ll do it. And if you never do, that’s perfect too.”

She smiled against his skin, sleepy and utterly peaceful.

Somewhere in the quiet, the terrified twenty-four-year-old who had once sat rigid on an exam table clutching a paper gown closed in the back finally, completely, let go.

And Alexandra Thompson (twenty-five next month, ordinary job, ordinary friends, ordinary life) fell deeply, calmly asleep in the arms of the man who had once been her doctor, then her healer, and was now simply hers.

No more ghosts. No more shame. Just the quiet, certain knowledge that every inch of her (seen and unseen, stretched and scarred and gloriously, perfectly sensitive) belonged to her now.

And always would.