Dating a dentist sounds glamorous in theory.

In practice, it is a psychological event.

One minute you're lovers, sharing strawberries and cream while watching Wimbledon — all polite flirtation and soft laughter — and the next, you're sitting upright in a dental lobby, nervously fondling a complimentary water bottle, awaiting judgment from a woman who once whispered "I missed you" and is now about to say "You grind at night."

It began innocently enough — a conversation, a suggestion.
"You should start coming to my office," she said one morning, brushing beside me with surgeonlike ease.

I assumed she meant to visit. To bring her matcha. To exist near her workspace.
Reader — she meant as a patient.

And so, I found myself sitting in her waiting room, reading a laminated pamphlet titled "Let's Talk Tartar!" and feeling deeply, deeply unprepared.

When she came to collect me, she was in uniform — white coat, hair tied back, mask slung like a weapon of war.
She wore loops.

Loops.
Magnifying glasses strapped to her face like she was about to explore the Mariana Trench of my molars.

She looked… incredible.

Authoritative.
Clinically radiant.
Like someone who had no time for nonsense — or plaque.

And that's when the confusion started.
Because as she took my chart and called my name, my body lit up with an unfortunate combination of emotions:

Arousal.
Fear.
The knowledge that I had not flossed since Q3.

There is a specific kind of shame that comes from being seduced by your partner's professional confidence while simultaneously knowing they are about to take a small metal hook and scrape around your gums until you bleed from guilt and gingiva.

She reclined me.
Tilted my head back.
Issued gentle commands with the tone of a benevolent dictator:

"Bite."
"Open."
"Relax your tongue."

I wanted to tell her I loved her.
Instead, I gagged slightly and blinked three times to signal distress.

I have always had a mild doctor fantasy — haven't we all?
But this wasn't the soft-focus, steamy kind.

This was real.
This was suction tubes, fluoride varnish, latex gloves.
This was clinical hierarchy paired with romantic history.
This was… complex.

What happens to passion when it dons a mask and gently critiques your molars?
What is left of eros once someone has asked you, tenderly,
"Do you feel sensitivity in this quadrant?"

Afterward, she lifted my chair.
Removed the bib.
Smiled.

There was no kiss.
Just a clinical nod. A faint murmur of "You're all set."
A transactional swipe of the latex gloves into the trash bin.

And me — blinking.
Unsure if I had just had a dental cleaning or survived an emotional strip search.

She walked off, radiant in her white coat.
I sat there, bib askew, quietly undoing the top button of my shirt to cool down.
Because apparently, arousal and oral examination are not mutually exclusive.

Love is strange.
Love with dental x-rays is stranger.