if i wanted a shrink, i'd hire one.
Krou'Ahz stills as Julie's patience frays. Outside, the wind howling against glass windowpanes dries up in a gasp. The clock stops ticking. The roil of his tea kettle peters back into a simmer.
Something he's said has connected with her, touched some exposed psychic nerve that she's not ready to discuss. Her defense mechanisms blaze like pale fire. Even so, her rebuke connects with him like a pert little slap he doesn't see coming.
He pins her in place with his gaze, a still-twitching butterfly to cork board, and lets the silence grow between them. They sit like that for five, ten minutes, him studying her, her studying and picking at a loose thread in the chaise. Julie makes no effort to fill the emptiness. She doesn't rely on the comfort of constant sound and chatter the way others do.
He's always liked that about her.
Another five minutes. She's not giving him an inch. Krou'Ahz sighs, shoulders dropping, and folds his hands over his knee.
Mildly, "I'm not trying to shrink you. I'm trying to understand you."
Gradually, sound and movement resume. The wind picks back up. The clock's hands accelerate to account for lost time. In the kitchen, the tea kettle begins to sing. Julie will not be having tea. Julie never accepts anything he offers.
"I'm trying to understand why you resist being understood."