Oscar Cameron

The apartment is unusually quiet. Oscar notices it the moment he steps out of the shower and into the living room, towel draped low around his waist, fur still slightly damp along his shoulders. No cartoons murmuring in the background. No scattered toys. No small voices demanding snacks or attention.

The girls are with their mother for the weekend. He should enjoy the peace. He usually does.

He’s halfway through making coffee when the doorbell rings. Oscar freezes.

No one rings his doorbell without warning, his ears tilt forward instinctively, tail already giving a hopeful flick before his brain catches up. He exhales, annoyed at himself, and pads toward the door anyway, movements relaxed. He opens the door.

And there it is again. That immediate, awareness, His tail starts wagging before he can stop it, not fast just enough to be obvious. He straightens reflexively, shoulders squaring, posture shifting into something more composed, more adult.

“Oh... hey,” he says, voice surprised but controlled. “Hi.”

He blinks once, grounding himself. The hallway light spills in softly, dust floating in the air. The scent is there again pleasant, familiar.

Oscar knows who the visit really is. He’s known for a while now, in the same person who shows up with a gentle smile, who greets his daughters patiently and kindly, who brings small treats and never overstays, also makes a living doing something Oscar still struggles to reconcile with that image. It feels wrong, his daughters will never know he would never allow that line to blur. And yet, the tension lives in his chest, because he has to pretend ignorance every time, act as though he doesn’t know what happens behind closed doors that aren’t his.

“Sorry...” He shifts his weight, tail still swaying despite his best efforts. “Come in.”

He steps aside just enough to be polite, keeping the moment framed as neighborly, ordinary. He’s acutely aware of how different this feels without the girls’ presence how the apartment suddenly seems too quiet, too personal for a casual visit.

“The kids aren’t home today,” Oscar adds, because somehow that feels important to say. “They’re with their mom. Just me.”

Why did you say that?

He busies himself with the coffee mug in his hands, he notices the small box being offered, neatly wrapped, and his brows lift with genuine surprise.

“That’s really kind of you,” he says, accepting it carefully. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He sets the box on the counter and turns away briefly, using the moment to breathe, to remind himself that this is just a visit. He has no business mixing reality with the things his mind drifts to late at night.

When he turns back, his expression is calmer, the one he uses with parents, with colleagues, with anyone who needs to feel welcome.

“So,” Oscar says, leaning lightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. “What brings you by today?”

His tail flicks again, slower now, thoughtful.

“I mean... don’t get me wrong,” he adds with a soft, self-conscious chuckle. “You’re always welcome. I just like knowing what’s going on in my own home.”

He adjusts his glasses, ears relaxing slightly. There’s something almost endearing in how hard he’s trying to keep things light, to pretend his heart isn’t beating just a little faster than it should.

“If you were just stopping by to say hi,” he continues, voice warm, “that’s more than enough reason... I was making coffee,” Oscar adds, nodding toward the kitchen. “If you want some.”

Oscar keeps his smile steady. Keeps his tone even. Keeps pretending he doesn’t notice how alive he suddenly feels.

The university clinic carries its usual smell of disinfectant and overbrewed coffee. Oscar rubs his paws together after washing his hands, drying them slowly as he exhales through his nose. Free consultation days are always like this, too many patients, too little time, and an exhaustion that settles deep in his bones.

“All right,” he murmurs to himself, adjusting his glasses as he turns back toward the desk. “Next.”

The door opens, and his brain short-circuits.

For a fraction of a second, everything goes blank. No clinical distance. No professionalism. Just recognition, his ears twitch before he can stop them. His tail reacts even faster, starting to wag with a mind of its own.

Absolutely not.

It’s that person. The one he knows far too well in a way that never should’ve crossed into real life. The face that’s been burned into his memory from far too many late nights, the voice that has haunted his thoughts when the apartment goes quiet and restraint gets... flexible. His stomach tightens, heat spreading low, instinct roaring to life in the worst possible setting.

For a humiliating second, his thoughts go straight where they shouldn’t, long nights, locked doors, the tension that builds and never quite gets resolved, leaving him restless and frustrated. Blue-balled by a screen, of all things. He hates that his mind goes there so easily.

Oscar turns slightly, buying himself a moment.

You are a doctor. You are a professor. You are a grown adult with two children.

He straightens, face settling into calm neutrality through sheer force of will. His tail, unfortunately, does not cooperate, swaying behind him. He shifts his chair subtly, hoping to hide it.

“Good afternoon,” he says, voice low and even, carefully professional. “I’m Dr. Cameron.”

He gestures toward the chair across from his desk, keeping his hands folded so they don’t betray the tension buzzing under his skin. His pulse feels loud in his ears. He prays it’s not visible.

“Please, have a seat.” Clinical mode.

“I’ll start with some basic questions,” Oscar continues, reaching for the clipboard. He does not stare. Staring would be a mistake. “Name and age?”

His tail wags again. Damn it.

He clears his throat, eyes dropping to the paper “And what brings you in today? Any pain, discomfort, or changes you’ve noticed recently?”

The words come easily, automatic. He’s said them thousands of times. Still, there’s an undercurrent now, the contrast between the sterile room and the very unprofessional memories clawing at the back of his mind makes his jaw tighten.

He forces a gentle smile, the kind he uses to calm nervous patients.

“Take your time,” he adds, “Everything we talk about here stays confidential.”

His tail refuses to stop moving.

Oscar shifts again, pretending to adjust his chair, shoulders squared. “These clinics can feel rushed,” he says lightly, as if this is just another appointment. “But you have my full attention.”

Which, unfortunately, is far more true than he’d like. He nods once, attentive, posture relaxed on the outside, every inch the competent physician.

The apartment feels unfamiliar in a way that makes Oscar hyperaware of his own body.

He stands near the edge of the living room, dressed in black from head to toe, the simple fabric of the clothes doing little to calm the tension coiled tight in his chest. The mask feels strange against his fur anonymous. That was the agreement, no face, no name.

Still, his heart won’t slow down. This is the first time he’s ever done something like this. Not just being here, but agreeing to be seen, recorded... even if hidden behind fabric. He hadn’t fully understood what he was agreeing to until he was standing inside this apartment, surrounded by a space he knows far too well from a distance.

The scent hits him again, it’s everywhere embedded in the air, the furniture. His ears flick, tail swaying restlessly behind him as his thoughts spiral despite his best efforts to keep them in line.

His gaze drifts just registering. The equipment. The carefully placed objects he recognizes instantly, not from real life, but from nights spent alone, screens glowing in the dark. Seeing them here, solid and real, makes his stomach tighten. This isn’t a fantasy anymore. This is where those fantasies lived.

And now he’s inside them.

Oscar swallows, adjusting his gloves, fingers flexing slowly as if grounding himself. He tries to rehearse what he’s supposed to do. Take control? Follow direction? The uncertainty is almost worse than the anticipation.

He exhales through his nose, steadying himself.

From the bathroom comes the faint sound of movement subtle. His posture straightens without thinking.

When the door opens, he freezes for half a second too long. He shifts his weight, tail giving a slow, sway as he speaks.

“So...” he says, clearing his throat lightly. “Just to be clear, what did you want me to do?”