♢:Forehead or cheek kisses
He was tired.
So very, very tired. Things were coming to some kind of head, he could feel that even if he didn’t know exactly what was happening, and it was eating at the therapist.
But he had a job to do, and it was important for him to keep up with it. So he soldiered through. When things felt the worst, he took a moment to himself, but only a moment. There simply wasn’t time to waste on self, petty comforts.
Sometimes, though, comforts snuck up on you.
Usually they were little things. Giving in to the urge to put your head down on your desk, for example.
It was supposed to just be a quick de-stress, just put his down for a minute, but he must have fallen asleep, barely waking when his door was eased open by one of the secretaries.
She’d come to pick up a chart on patient blah blah, didn’t mean to interrupt blah blah; even as he was fighting to make himself wake back up, he could tell she was getting ready to back out, and then she go back to whichever director or department head she worked for empty handed, and first she’d get shouted down and then so would he —
"Here," he mumbled, long fingers scrambling over his desk before finding the folders, neatly filed and rubber-banded together, that she’d come looking for. He stumbled, blinking blearily and running his free hand through his hair as he stood and rounded the desk, holding out the folders. "These are what you came for.
She looked at the case numbers and nodded, looking at him for a moment before stepping in very close, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, turning and rushing away before he could react.