He has Dr. Hargrove's number

Seth lounged deeper into the luxurious embrace of his transformed sectional, the soft black leather creaking faintly under his weight as it conformed to every contour of his exhausted frame. The cushions, now thick and supportive, cradled his sore muscles like a custom-made cloud, drawing out the tension from his thighs and lower back where Lina's aggressive riding had left him tender and spent.

He let out a slow exhale, eyes drifting shut for a few seconds, savouring the newfound silence of his apartment—no more creaky springs or lumpy filling to jab at him. The air felt fresher too, circulating smoothly from the upgraded vents he'd zapped into existence, carrying a subtle hint of the eucalyptus diffuser he'd added on a whim during his revamp spree.

Around him, the space had evolved into something unrecognizable from the dingy student pad it had been just hours ago. The smart fridge in the open kitchen hummed softly, its stainless steel doors reflecting the warm, even light from the recessed LEDs embedded in the ceiling, casting long, gentle shadows across the gleaming hardwood floors that replaced the old stained carpet.

No more scuffs or worn patches; every plank shone with a fresh polish, the area rugs beneath his feet soft and patterned in neutral gays that tied the room together. His headache, that persistent throb from the cranial exam earlier, had dulled to a manageable whisper, retreating under the calm of this self-made oasis. With classes done for the day and no assignments screaming for attention, he had time—real time—to just breathe.

Idly, he reached into his jeans pocket, fingers brushing against the familiar shape of his phone, but something else came out with it: the business card, fluttering to the cushion beside him like an afterthought. He picked it up, turning it over between his thumb and forefinger, the cardstock smooth and slightly textured under his touch. That bold crimson lipstick kiss mark stared back at him, un smudged and vibrant, a stark contrast to the crisp white background.

Below it, her home address looped in elegant, flowing script—some upscale neighbourhood on the edge of town—and her private number etched in precise digits. ‘Evelyn Hargrove,’ it read at the bottom, the name evoking flashes of the clinic: her platinum blonde waves cascading as she knelt before him, those massive breasts straining her silk blouse, her mouth hot and eager around him during that improvised ‘assessment.’

A slow grin spread across his face, heat stirring low in his gut at the memory. Why let the day end on a high note when he could push it further? The remote had opened doors—literal and figurative—why not walk through another?

He thumbed open his phone, dialling the number with a casual tap, lifting the device to his ear as it connected after two short rings. The line clicked open, and her voice filtered through, sharp and composed, with the faint echo of clinic chatter in the background—muted conversations, a distant phone ringing, the shuffle of papers.

"Hello?" Dr. Hargrove said, her professional clip unmistakable, though he could picture her now in that tailored white coat, leaning against her desk between appointments.

"Hey, it's Seth—from earlier today," he replied, shifting to lean against the couch arm, his free hand absently drumming a rhythm on his knee, the soft tap-tap echoing lightly in the quiet room. "You gave me your card, mentioned something about private meetings?"

There was a brief pause on her end, perhaps a quick glance around her office to ensure privacy, before her tone softened, dipping into that warmer, more intimate register he'd heard during their encounter. "Seth, what perfect timing—I'm right between patients at the moment. What's on your mind?"

He glanced around his upgraded apartment again, taking in the granite kitchen counters he'd manifested, the wall-mounted flat-screen gleaming silently across from him, a surge of confidence bubbling up. "I was thinking we could meet up tonight. Maybe grab dinner or something? Continue where we left off?"

She responded with a soft laugh, the sound light and carrying that same hint of playful flirtation from the exam room, like she was already picturing it too. "I'm definitely open to that. My place or yours? Though, fair warning, I won't have any time to whip up dinner—work's got me tied up here a little longer than expected."

"No problem at all," Seth said, a touch of amusement creeping into his voice at the thought of hosting in this revamped space—he could almost see her reaction to the sudden luxury. "We could do it at my place. I can handle the food, easy."

Another chuckle came through the line, this one laced with a teasing edge, as if she found his offer endearing but impractical. "That's a sweet offer, really, but let's go with my house instead—it's got way more space than any apartment. We can just meet for drinks to start.

Swing by soon; I'm wrapping up for the day here." She paused briefly, perhaps checking her schedule or jotting something down, before rattling off her address—a quiet suburban street not too far from campus, the kind with manicured lawns and two-car garages. "See you in about an hour?"

"Sounds good," he agreed, a thrill running through him as he pocketed the card once more, ending the call with a tap. He leaned back fully now, staring at the ceiling with its new fixtures, already picturing the evening ahead—drinks at her place, that bombshell body waiting.