Chapter 10: “Looped In”

7:00 a.m.

Pop.

A tug at your waist. You groan, roll over—and are immediately met with the furrowed brow and intense, ever-so-slightly disappointed gaze of Dr. Evelyn Tran.

Her pinky finger is looped through your belt like she’s trying to keep you from wandering off mid-session. She’s in a pressed blouse and gray slacks, somehow still looking professional despite the absolute horror of waking up tethered to a client’s khakis.

You blink. She blinks. Her pinky twitches slightly. You feel it in your soul.

“This is a boundary violation,” you say automatically.

She raises an eyebrow. “I think I’m the one being **** here.”

7:12 a.m. – Therapy in Motion

You explain the wish. The genie. The rules. The twenty-four-hour minimum. She listens the way only therapists do—silent, neutral, storing ammo.

“Interesting,” she finally says, tugging her hand to test the bond. Your waistband yanks with it.

“Please don’t do that in public,” you whisper.

She makes a note. You don’t know where she got the notepad, but it appears instantly, like a summoned demon.

8:10 a.m. – Breakfast with Boundaries

You offer her toast.

She accepts it, silently writing: Avoidant attachment with mild codependent guilt. Also burns toast.

You try not to read upside-down, but it’s hard when she’s standing that close and writing on your own kitchen counter.

She asks how your week has been.

You say, “We’re literally fused together, I think we can skip the check-in.”

She says, “Defensiveness noted.”

You chew your toast with shame.

9:03 a.m. – Commute of Concern

You sit in the driver’s seat. She sits passenger-side, pinky still hooked to your belt like she’s the world’s most judgmental carabiner.

She critiques your playlist.

You switch to silence.

She hums. Calmly. Like this is fine.

You are not fine.

10:30 a.m. – Work Is Not a Safe Space

Linda from HR appears immediately.

Sees Dr. Tran.

Sees the pinky.

Says nothing.

Leaves faster than anyone has ever moved in heels.

Bryce walks by. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Writes “HELP” on a Post-it and sticks it to your monitor.

Dr. Tran peels it off. Hands it back. “You first,” she tells you.

Bryce flees.

1:22 p.m. – Lunch and Emotional Excavation

You try to eat a burrito.

She watches you eat.

You say, “You’re making it weird.”

She says, “You’ve projected maternal authority onto every woman this week. Let’s talk about that.”

You **** on cilantro.

She jots something down.

3:37 p.m. – Break Room Reckoning

You sneak off to the break room for five minutes of peace. She follows, obviously. Pinky still looped. Tension still radiating off her like lavender-scented gravity.

You sit.

She sits closer.

You say, “Don’t therapize me right now.”

She nods. “Of course.”

Then: “What would it mean to you if I did?”

You scream into a granola bar.

6:45 p.m. – Couch Session

You both sit on the couch, exhausted. Her shoes are off. Your pants are still on—barely, thanks to the waistband being slowly stretched toward the point of no return.

“I’m sorry for… earlier,” you mutter.

She softens. “That’s progress.”

“Thanks.”

“But also avoidance.”

“…Dammit.”

11:59 p.m. – The Pinky Pact

She’s half-asleep on your couch, slouched uncharacteristically, pinky still in place.

You whisper, “You’re not the worst therapist to be magically tethered to.”

She murmurs, “I should hope not.”

You glance down at her pinky.

Still hooked. Still absurd.

Still somehow comforting.

7:00 a.m. – Pop.

Gone.

You sit up. Alone. Free. But still vaguely like you just overshared on a first date.

Your waistband is stretched.

Your heart? Maybe too.

You check your phone.

A message.

From Dr. Tran.

“Next week, same time. Also, you owe me new slacks.”

You sigh.

And confirm the appointment.

Let me know who’s stuck to you tomorrow. Could be a TikTok tarot reader. Could be your childhood piano teacher. Could be worse.

Probably will be.