I’m down on my knees with the scrubbing brush when my phone buzzes against the tiles. I wipe my damp hand across my leggings and swipe to see the notification. Dentist appointment: 2pm.

“Oh, shit!”

I had it in my head that my appointment was tomorrow, and now I realise I’ve only got twenty minutes to get there. My stomach drops. I’m flushed from cleaning already, too warm in my pink marble leggings and the stretchy pink sweater I pulled on this morning. It’s autumn and the air is cool enough that a T-shirt isn’t quite enough, but after all that scrubbing, I feel sticky and overheated. It’s too late now, I’ve got no time to change. I quickly spritz some perfume that's sitting on the bathroom shelf and hurtle downstairs, snatching up the paperback lying on the console table that I started months ago and keep meaning to finish. A friend gave it to me, a thriller, not my usual thing, and I’m halfway through now. I really just need to get to the end of it. Though realistically, what chance will I have to read today? I do one last check: keys, book, phone, and bolt for the door.

The rough surface of the back road shakes the car. I grip the wheel tighter as hedgerows blur into trees, my teeth on edge with every bend. In my mind I rehearse the scene of arriving late, of someone at reception pursing their lips and reminding me I should have been here already. I’ve never even been to this practice before, and it's typical of me to be late for my first ever appointment. But by some miracle I miss every red light and screech into the car park with a few minutes to spare. I jump out of the car a little breathless and head towards the entrance at a pace. 

The waiting room is hushed, the hatch pulled closed and blinds twisted half shut. A clock ticks far too loudly in the corner and the air smells faintly of antiseptic. I lower myself into one of the plastic chairs, catching my breath in the silence.

I turn my book over in my hand but realise there’s no point starting up with it again now. My official appointment time is in two minutes, barely time to read a few pages. I glance around me at the posters lining the walls, a wide cartoon grin full of perfect teeth, anatomical diagrams labelled in Latin and in a glass cabinet a pyramid of sugar cubes stacked beside bottles of juice and cans of cola. 

My eyes drift to the gallery of staff pictures who work in the practice, but my attention is pulled away sharply as the door beside me swings open and a woman bustles past in a puffer coat. Simultaneously, the hatch slides open, its metal rim catching with a jolt at the top, producing a tinny sound which reverberates around the room. A voice calls me over.

“Two o’clock? No problem. Please take a seat.”

I sink back again as the clock ticks and the lights hum, and then the inner door swings open.

“Mrs Parsons?”

The voice is young, male. I look up and blink. Green scrubs, tanned skin, a mask hiding his mouth and two brown eyes holding mine.

“Yes. Hello.”

“I’m the new dentist at the practice. How are you today?”

“I’m well, thank you. How are you?”

“Good, thanks.”

He gestures for me to follow and I step into the examination room, which somehow feels both familiar and yet also unknown. The chair sits in the centre, covered in clear plastic, gleaming under the lamp. Usually I find these rooms clinical and oppressive, as if they are designed to strip you down into just a set of teeth. But with him here, something shifts. The harsh light seems softer and some of the chill has evaporated. I slide myself onto the dental chair and he lowers a light over my face. 

“First I’m going to feel round your face and jaw. Is that alright?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Then I’ll check your teeth. Since you’re new, we’ll do some x-rays as well. Does that sound OK?”

“Yes, fine, thanks.”

He reclines the chair a little further, the plastic crinkling under my sweater. His gloved hands touch my face in a way that is both gentle and deliberate. Warmth from his fingers seeps through the latex as he presses along my jawline. I focus on the ceiling, a little dot above the lamp, anything to avoid his eyes, though I can feel them, and glimpse them in the corner of my mind. Steady and somehow too intimate.

The nurse sits at the computer, tapping as he murmurs phrases in code: numbers and letters. Dental jargon that might as well be another language. I let my gaze slip to his for a moment and feel my cheeks prickle with heat.

“Your teeth look fine,” he says at last. “No cavities that I can see. A little staining at the back, and some calcification on this front tooth, which I can remove for you today if you’re happy with that?”

“Oh, yes please.” The words come out sounding far too eager.

He tilts the chair upright a little and I cannot avoid looking him fully in the face,  or as fully as the mask allows. His skin is taut, flawless, the kind that time hasn’t yet placed any stamp on. How old is he? Mid-twenties, maybe?

“What are you reading?” He asks suddenly.

The question startles me, and I hesitate, forgetting about the book I placed on the floor when I walked in. I’ve never been asked anything unrelated to my oral hygiene by a dentist before, and I was unprepared for small talk. 

“Oh, it’s a thriller. It’s pretending to be a romance so far, but it clearly isn’t.” I stutter.

His eyes crease, a smile hidden by the mask, and for a moment, we hold that glance. Then the nurse slips out of the room and stands in the doorway.

“Alright, time to do the X-rays,” he says. “Are you okay with X-rays?”

“Yes.”

He stands and begins fussing with some equipment, adjusting arms and cables, the faint sound of metal scraping against tile pings around the room. I watch, unsure what to do, then reach down for my book and keys, convinced we must be moving somewhere else. He looks at me, puzzled.

“Do you want to sit?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought we were going somewhere.”

I should feel embarrassed for being such a pillock, but I don’t. With him, there’s no sting of judgment and no sharp edge in his question. I feel oddly cocooned in his presence, it’s strange, I’ve never felt anything like this, and in a dentist’s chair of all places.

The room stills, only the hum of the lamp above us, as he places a little plastic guard in my mouth, his fingers brushing my lips. There’s something so intimate about it, someone inside your mouth, their hands on your face.

He steps back, positions the arm of the machine, and slips out into the doorway beside the nurse. The machine hums, then clicks. He returns to reposition the plastic guard to the other side of my mouth. Another hum, click. His eyes meet mine briefly each time before he vanishes behind the wall, as though we’re in some private game.

“Okay,” he says at last, peeling off a glove, “we’ll just need to wait a moment for the pictures to come through. Shouldn’t take long.”

The silence hangs for a moment before he asks, “Have you read any Sarah Maas books?”

I blink. “No, I don’t think so. What genre is that?” I feel like I know who this writer is, but I can’t find it in the perimenopausal fog obscuring my memory bank.

“Oh, fantasy, I think. I haven’t read them myself, but people say they’re good.”

I tilt my head, people say, it sounds odd coming from his mouth. It strikes me as odd, this young man recommending a book he hasn’t even read. I wonder if his sister or mum told him about it?

“I’ve got loads of friends who love that fantasy, romantasy stuff. I can never get into them. After a few chapters I usually find I’m already bored and give up.”

“Same. Not really my thing either.”

“I think it’s all the world-building,” I say. “By the time they’ve listed out the types of magic and where all the tribes live and stuff I’m already done.”

He scoffs lightly. “Yeah. Crime thrillers are more my thing.”

I glance at him, I wonder if he really reads, or if he’s just saying this? On the face of it this conversation is nothing more than small talk, and yet it feels oddly charged, almost like the rhythm of a first date, with him trying to find a point of connection. And all the while he’s watching me with those curious eyes.

The thought lingers, maybe he’s trying to impress me? I suddenly become very aware of myself in the chair. Perhaps this sweater is clinging a little too closely across my chest, my pink leggings pull tight across my thighs, patterned in a way that makes them feel more revealing than I’d like. I had bolted out of the house, convinced I looked a mess, sweaty from scrubbing, yet I had put on make-up and my hair still held a loose curl from the heatless curler I wore overnight. Maybe I don't look as chaotic as I feel? I catch him glance over me, quick, almost nothing, but I feel it, and my pulse skips. Could he really? No. Surely not.

I shift in the chair, trying to pretend I haven’t noticed, trying to decide if I’m imagining it. How could he look at me like that? How could he possibly?

And yet…

The air in the room suddenly feels thick, and I can almost believe… but then the computer pings, and just like that, the spell breaks. He steps closer to the monitor, tugging his mask down a little as he studies the images. For the first time I see more of his face: the curve of his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. It’s unfair, how beautiful youth can be.

“Everything looks good,” he says, eyes still on the screen. “No cavities, no problems at all. You don’t need to come back for at least a year. Maybe two.”

I nod, trying not to sag as he helps me out of the chair and leads me towards the door. He stops with his hand on the handle; it’s just the two of us in the room. He hesitates, a tiny pause that stretches wider than it should. He turns and I notice his expression shift, for the briefest moment it looks like longing and my breath snags in my throat. I should go, I should, and yet I don’t move. The already thick air between us settles in the pause.

“Okay, well… thank you so much,” I manage, my voice thinner than I intend.

He moves a little closer and without meaning to I lean slightly into him, my arm brushing his side. The contact jolts through me.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” I blurt, heat once again rushing to my cheeks.

“No need,” he says softly.

Our eyes catch, and then, I don’t know who moves first, him or me, but suddenly his mouth is on mine, hot and urgent. For a heartbeat I cannot think, only feel. The press of him against me is solid, the hard line of his desire digging into my hip. Something aches low within me as he slams my into the door. I gasp into his mouth as his hands tangle in my hair, tugging. The sharp edge of it only makes me melt harder. All I can think is yes, yes, I want this, yes, I want him. The thought looping, frantic and shameless. I press closer, greedy to feel more of him, my body alive, every nerve lit. The world shrinks to just this moment, the impossible heat, and I never want it to end.

Then the sound comes, footsteps and a door clattering down the hall. We jolt apart, he quickly straightens, tugging his mask back up, all professional again. I follow him out, my legs feel unsteady, and I worry they might give way under me. The nurse is back at the front desk and he gives me the faintest nod, no more than a polite gesture, and I watch helpless as he heads back down the corridor and out of sight. I fumble at the reception desk, half-listening as the assistant takes my payment, I sign something without even looking and murmur my thanks. My hand shaking as I push my card back into my purse. 

Then I’m outside and somehow find myself back in the car, though I don’t remember unlocking it or climbing in. Time in my mind is somehow standing still and I seem to be trapped in a loop, repeatedly playing the moment when his lips pressed against mine. I sit for a moment, staring blankly through the windscreen. It’s absurd, impossible, a dentist, a man I met less than an hour ago. Disappointment washes over me as the realisation hits that I might never see him again. Or at least not any time soon; not for a year, or maybe even two. The thought leaves a hollow ache.

I glance at the passenger seat and realise my book isn’t there. I left it behind.

For a moment, I picture myself walking back in, fetching it, having one more chance to look at him. The idea makes my pulse jump. But then another thought seeps into the corner of my mind, a way, a way I might see him for longer, his excuse to try and find me, if he wants to. The book will stay there, waiting; my Cinderella slipper. I drive away with my heart racing, knowing that behind me, in that bright, sterile room, the story I left half-finished, waits on the floor.