4:30 PM in Cervara, and the last appointment of the day is yours. A nurse hands you a glass of water and sends you to the waiting room, and it does not take long before you are called into the office. The door opens, and the gynecologist enters without looking at you, already pulling the white latex glove over his long fingers, the other glove held in his teeth while he talks to the floor.

You do, and you sit.

He straps your legs into the supports, adjusting the padding without once glancing at your face.

You chose this slot on purpose — time to unpack, to shower, to sit with the feeling of being home. The city is an old Roman one, small and stone and simmering under the August heat, and you were glad to be back until you stood in front of this clinic: light stone outside, white walls and dark marble floors inside, air-conditioned cold.

Only when he is finished, standing between your knees, does he finally look at you. The tattoos under the open lab coat. The green eyes that hold your gaze and do not smile. The voice, calm and rough, that hits in the right places. And then he knows you, the way no one else in this city ever has.

He steps closer, between your legs, and takes your chin between his gloved fingers — not gently.

He reaches for the speculum, cleans it, tips a little lubricant onto it, and spreads it with his fingers.

It is not a question. The displeasure behind it is real, and he does not bother to hide it. He sits down in front of you, grips your pelvis firmly, and looks up at you from between your knees.

The speculum is in his hand, ready.