#something like truth

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01 This is Fine

02 Layers

03 Not Clean

04 Good Days Are Worse

05 Burnout & M&Ms

06 Fragile Patterns

07 Lingering

08 Margins

09 In Case of Emergency, Break Glass

10 In a New Light

11 The Weight We Carry

12 Fail State

13 Typing... (Part I)

14 Typing... (Part II)

15 Typing... (Part III)

16 Exhibit C

17 Cognitive Dissonance

18 The Cost of Clarity

19 Nothing to Report

20 Out of Office

21 If That's Okay

22 Okay

23 Terms & Conditions

24 Under Fluorescence

25 Still Life

26 Window Seat

27 Countertransference

28 Half-Full

29 You Look Tired

30 After Hours

31 Pillow Talk

32 Small Fires

33 Full Circle

34 Intersubjectivity

His stomach dropped so fast it felt physical, like something inside him had shifted out of place. No. No, that wasn’t—he didn’t finish the thought before she swiped again, already moving on. 

“And this was when I went ice skating with him and Gwyn—oh, wait—”

Another picture. Clearer this time. Closer. There was no room left for doubt. 

Fuck. 

His grip tightened around his pen—too tight. The plastic pressed into his fingers before he forced his hand to loosen, like he could undo the reaction before it meant anything. Years of training locked his face into something neutral, something passable at least. Attentive, composed, unchanged. Nothing that reflected the way the ground had just dropped out from under him. 

He should stop this. 

The thought came clean. Immediate. 

He should stop the session. Now. Right now. 

Conflict of interest. Dual relationship. Immediate termination of care. Referral out. The words lined up automatically, clinical and precise, the way they always did. He knew the script. Knew exactly how it should sound—calm, measured, non-negotiable. He’d said it before without hesitation, without room for argument. 

There are lines you don’t cross.

And this?

Fuck. 

“—oh my god, wait, this one’s actually so bad—”

She laughed softly, still swiping, still talking like nothing had changed—as if the moment hadn’t split cleanly in two. Rhys nodded at the right times, made the right sounds, slipped seamlessly back into the role he’d built for himself over years of practice. He played the part without missing a beat, because the second thought had already followed the first, sliding into place before he could stop it. 

You don’t have to do it now. 

His jaw tightened. 

He could finish the session. One hour. Nothing inappropriate, nothing actionable, nothing that couldn’t be documented and handled after the fact. He could still fix it—terminate after this session, refer her out, deepen the line in the sand once he had time to think. Clean boundary. No harm done. 

It made sense. 

It almost felt reasonable. 

His gaze flicked to her. She was leaning forward slightly, one ankle crossed over the other, completely at ease—comfortable in a way that had taken weeks to build, piece by careful piece. He’d watched that progress happen, tracked it in small shifts and quiet moments, the gradual loosening of something that had once been tightly held. 

And there was the other thing. 

He’d never named it. Not even to himself, because that would force him to acknowledge it as more than coincidence, or projection, or something easily dismissed if he didn’t look at it too closely. 

It hadn’t been consistent. That was how he justified it. 

Just moments. Small ones. Easy to overlook if he chose to. Moments where her attention lingered a fraction longer than it needed to, where her gaze didn’t just meet his, but stayed. Where it drifted without her seeming to notice—down to his hands when he moved them, to his forearms when his sleeves were pushed up, to his mouth when he spoke. 

Small things. 

A quick press of her lips together, then the faintest flick of her tongue across them, like she’d caught herself a second too late. The way she’d sit a little closer to the edge of the couch on certain days, posture more open, more engaged. The subtle shift in her tone—lighter, warmer—on days when she’d clearly taken more care getting ready, like she’d decided, consciously or not, to meet him there instead of holding herself back. 

Nothing that could be called out. 

Nothing he could—

Should—

Interpret. 

He’d let it pass every time, filed it away neatly under misread body language. Transference, maybe. Projection. Normal. Expected. Manageable. Easy to contain as long as he didn’t think about it too hard. 

Until now. Because now it felt—

He cut the thought off before it could fully form.

Rhys’ jaw tightened slightly, the shift small, something internal slipping just slightly out of alignment.

She was comfortable. With him. 

He shouldn’t take that from her mid-session. How could he? Not like this. Not without any warning, not without giving her time to understand what had changed. 

That was the justification. 

He clicked his pen once again, a quiet, habitual motion. He willed himself into the image of calm composure, indistinguishable from any other session. On the surface, nothing had changed. His posture was easy, controlled, his expression neutral in a way that read as attentive. If someone walked in, they wouldn’t see it—the shift, the fracture, the fact that something had already gone wrong. 

“Walk me through that night,” he said evenly. “You mentioned you knew he’d be there.”

A beat passed before he added, “Cassian.”

The name sat wrong in his mouth, heavier than it should have been, like it didn’t belong in this room. To be fair, it didn’t. As soon as he’d come up, Rhys should have— 

Across from him, she didn’t seem to notice. 

“Yeah,” she said, shifting slightly as she set her phone down. “I mean, I figured he would be. We’ve been—” she hesitated, “—not no-contact, I guess.”

Rhys nodded slowly, like there was nothing unusual about any of this. 

“And being around him,” he said, “what did that feel like for you?”

It was a neutral question. Standard. Safe. 

“Fine,” she said too quickly. Then softer, “Normal, mostly.”

Mostly. 

“And the rest of it?”

“It’s just… complicated, I guess.” She exhaled, glancing down at her hands. “We get along, he’s an easy guy to be around. It’s just… not exactly stable.”

Rhys hummed, the sound quiet, thoughtful. 

“Not stable,” he repeated, letting the words settle for a moment. “Do you mean unpredictable,” he said, “or just… consistently unsatisfying?”. 

The second it left his mouth, he knew. 

Too leading. Too narrow. It gave her language she hadn’t chosen herself, pushed her toward an answer instead of letting her find one. He knew better. He’d been trained not to do that—to leave space, not fill it. 

He didn’t take it back. 

She blinked once, like she was considering it, then—

“...yeah,” she said slowly. 

Something in his chest loosened. 

“Consistently unsatisfying,” she repeated, like she was trying the words on for size. And for a split second, he felt it—sharp, instant, gone just as quickly as it came. 

Satisfaction. 

“Not in that way,” she added quickly. 

Rhys went still. 

She huffed a small, almost self-conscious laugh. “He’s… he’s not bad,” she said, a little awkwardly. “Kind of the opposite. Generous, if anything. Like, almost annoyingly considerate.”

His jaw tightened. 

No. Stay in it. Stay in it. Stay—

He couldn’t. 

“So he’s attentive,” he said. “And that’s… the bar?”

“Well—no. It shouldn’t be,” she said. 

“You’re right, it shouldn’t,” he replied, tone smoother now. His pen rolled once between his fingers, something to do with his hands. “There are plenty of men who can give you that.” 

A beat passed. 

“And more.”

Her mouth parted slightly.

Rhys felt it land somewhere low in his stomach, sudden and disorienting, before he could stop it. 

She leaned back a little, just enough to put space between them, but her attention didn’t go with it. 

“Okay,” she said slowly, “That felt a little… targeted.”

Rhys let out a quiet breath through his nose, the corner of his mouth threatening something that didn’t quite qualify as a smile. 

“Did it?”

He should have walked it back. Smoothed it over. Redirected the conversation somewhere safer, somewhere neutral.

Instead, he watched her. 

The way her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve like they always did—but looser this time, less guarded. The way her shoulders stayed open, even as she leaned back. No real attempt to close herself off. No retreat. 

If anything, she was leaning into it.

“You said he’s generous,” he continued, more evenly now, like he was choosing his words with care this time. “Attentive. Easy to be around.”

Each word was softer than the last, but he didn’t miss the weight of them.

“And still…” His gaze held hers. “You don’t want to stay.”

She didn’t answer right away, but her eyes flicked—brief, almost automatic—to his mouth before returning to his eyes, like she’d caught herself doing it a second too late.

His grip tightened slightly around the pen in his hand.

“Yeah,” she said finally.

“Right.”

Rhys paused before continuing.

“And that doesn’t… bother him?” The question came out smoother than he felt.

Her brows pulled slightly. “What do you mean?”

“That you don’t stay,” he clarified. “That you’re there, and then you’re not.”

He watched the way she processed that—how she bit her lip, slow and absentminded, like she wasn’t even aware she was doing it. Another sharp pull hit low in his stomach. The thought came just as fast—what that would look like directed at him, what it would feel like to earn that reaction while his face was between her legs, tongue—

No.

“He doesn’t say anything?” he added, clearing his throat. 

He knew exactly what he was doing, turning Cassian into something smaller, something easier to dismiss, piece by piece. Taking what she gave him and shifting it just slightly, reframing it until it sounded different coming back to her than it had when she first said it. He didn’t need to tell her what to think. He just nudged. Let the silences stretch in the right places, let certain words land heavier than others, until the conclusion felt like it was hers. 

And Rhys knew it was unethical. Indefensible. 

She hesitated. “I mean… not really.”

He exhaled again, gaze dropping for half a second—tracking the way her fingers twisted slightly in her sleeve again—before returning to her face.

“That’s convenient,” he said.

Her head tilted slightly. “For who?”

He didn’t answer right away. He watched the way she held his gaze now, not skirting around it, not dropping away from it like she used to. Holding. Matching. 

“You tell me.”

She let out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh under it, though it didn’t quite land.

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“No,” he said. “It usually isn’t.”

His eyes drifted lower then, catching the faint press of her lips together before she wet them, slow and unthinking. 

He held there a second too long. 

Then forced himself to look back up.

“And he’s fine with that,” he continued. “With you showing up when you feel like it. Leaving when you don’t.”

“I don’t know about fine,” she responded, finally pulling her fingers free from her sleeve and resting her hand against her thigh. 

Rhys tracked the motion. 

His hand twitched with the impulse to close the distance, to rest his own palm against her thigh like it belonged there, like he had any right to touch her at all. 

“But he hasn’t said anything to me,” she finished.

“Seems like a pretty low-risk situation,” he said. Then after a beat, “For Cassian.” 

He watched that land—the shift in her expression, the way she tensed just slightly.

Rhys leaned back slightly, one arm resting against the chair now, his posture looser than he felt. But his gaze didn’t waver. 

“Men aren’t too complicated,” he said. “He gets consistency without responsibility. You show up when you want to. You leave when you don’t. No expectations. No real consequences if it doesn’t go anywhere. He doesn’t have to risk anything.”

He looked at the way her skirt had ridden up just enough to expose more of her thigh, the fabric shifting higher with the way she’d adjusted in her seat. His eyes traced it without meaning to, following the line of her leg before dragging back up. 

“He still gets you.”

Her brows pulled slightly, something in her posture shifting. Still not defensive or closed, but recalibrating.  

“That’s not—” she started, then stopped, adjusting mid-thought. “I’m pretty sure we’ve talked about how I think he wants more than that.”

Rhys’ jaw tightened.

“That’s what he says,” he replied without a second thought. 

What are you doing?

The thought cut clean through him. This was fucked. On so many levels. He was steering the conversation, pushing it, shaping it into something that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him. 

He was manipulating her. Worse? He found himself unable to stop. 

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, like she was trying to place where that had come from. It wasn’t how he usually responded.

“No,” she said, more certain now. “It’s not just what he says. He’s—” she exhaled softly, searching for the right wording, “he tries to be… more. I’m just not… available for it. The personal stuff.”

Something in his chest shifted at that. Something distinctly not relief.

Rhys leaned forward slightly, forearms resting against his thighs, the pen forgotten in his hand.

“Personal,” he repeated.

The word sounded different coming from him.

“You get personal with me every week.”

It landed between them before he could reshape it into something safer, and he felt it immediately, the line he’d just stepped over. But instead of pulling back—

You’ve come this far, Rhys. 

“You show up,” he continued, voice lower, rough around the edges in a way he didn’t bother correcting. “You sit here, you tell me things you don’t tell anyone else. You let me in—”

Too far, he knew it.

“So it’s not that you can’t do personal,” he finished, more measured now, but not enough to undo what had already been said. “Just not with him.”

She didn’t look away. Didn’t deflect.

And that—

that was new.

Rhys felt something dangerous tighten low in his chest, curling and making a home there before he could stop it, unwelcome in how easily it took hold, how little resistance it met once it was there.

Across from him, she hadn’t shifted. 

“What is this?” she asked, her gaze narrowing slightly. The way her eyes held his—clear, searching, trying to pin him down in a way she hadn’t before. The faint crease between her brows, the slight tilt of her head as she studied him, like she was skeptical. 

She should be. She should be. 

He traced the line of her face, the curve of her mouth where it had just parted around the question, the way her sleeve had slipped back just enough to expose her wrist, her hand still resting against her thigh. 

Rhys knew exactly how he should answer the question.

“What do you mean?” he said.

Wrong. 

“You know what I mean.”

Rhys exhaled quietly through his nose, resting his elbows on his knees like he could reset the space between them if he just moved enough. Like posture could fix tone. Like he could put himself back behind the line.

“I’m asking you questions,” he said, measured, even. “That’s not new.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Rhys watched it happen—the pause, the way she sat with it instead of brushing past it. Her gaze stayed on him, steady, assessing in a way that felt new. 

“That’s not what this feels like,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet, but it landed heavier than it should have. 

When he’d first started seeing her, there had been something softer in her—uncertain, a little disillusioned, like she was still figuring out how much space she was allowed to take up. But now she was really looking at him, like she was assessing him, weighing him in a way that felt new. More sure of herself. More steady in the way she held his gaze, in the way she didn’t rush to fill the silence he’d left behind. 

His attention dropped to the long sleeves pulled slightly up her forearms, the fabric bunched up just enough to expose the line of her wrist, the subtle shift of movement as her fingers flexed against her thigh. 

Then slightly higher, to where the hem of her skirt had ridden up an inch, maybe more, the fabric pulling higher with the way she’d settled into the couch. A sliver of bare skin, nothing that should have mattered. 

He could pull it back. The conversation, not the skirt—but, God, did he want to.

He knew how. 

Reign in his tone, widen the question, give her space to reframe it herself.

Instead, he said, “Then what does it feel like?”

Her lips parted slightly, like she might answer right away, but she didn’t. She leaned back just a fraction, that damned skirt pulling up just a bit further, giving herself space to think. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “Different, I guess.”

Different.

The word settled between them, vague enough to leave room, specific enough that it didn’t need clarification. Rhys got the impression that she wasn’t entirely sure what this meant, but knew something was there.

He should have left it alone.

Should have let the ambiguity sit, let it diffuse on its own.

“Different how?”

Rhys watched the hesitation settle in—not searching for words, but deciding whether to say them. 

“You already know the answer,” she breathed, blinking, like she hadn’t meant to say it like that. The flicker of surprise in her eyes, like she might take it back.

But she just looked at him.

“Do I?” he said.

It wasn’t a real question.

It didn’t sound like one.

“Yes,” she said immediately.

And Rhys felt something like a door closing, slamming behind him without the option to open it back up again. There was no clean way to step back from this now, no version of the conversation that could be pulled back into something neutral.

Because she wasn’t hesitating anymore. 

And neither was he. 

“Then say it,” he said.

Her fingers pressed lightly into her thigh, grounding, but the rest of her stayed open—facing him, not retreating.

“You’re not asking me anything,” she said. “You’re telling me.”

“And you don’t like that?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” he said, just as quickly. “You didn’t.”

The words barely had time to settle before the silence snapped back into place, tighter than before. It held—thick, unmoving, charged with everything neither of them was saying. 

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them looked away.

A sharp chime cut through the room.

Jarring in its brightness, in its insistence. Too loud for the space, too abrupt for what it interrupted. For a second—two—Rhys didn’t move. He stayed exactly as he was, gaze locked on hers, like the sound hadn’t meant anything at all. Across from him, she didn’t move either, didn’t break first.

The chime sounded again.

Rhys leaned back then, the movement controlled in a way that felt almost forced. Like he was reassembling something piece by piece instead of slipping back into place naturally. “That’s time,” he said, pressing a button to shut it off. The words sounded practiced, automatic.

It didn’t fit.

He reached for the notepad he hadn’t touched practically all session, grounding himself in the familiar motions. A glance at the clock, a small nod—everything exactly where it should be. Routine. Structure. Distance. All of it back in its rightful place.

Except it wasn’t. Not really. 

Because when his gaze lifted to hers again, it didn’t settle the way it was supposed to. It didn’t soften, didn’t create that careful, professional space he knew how to maintain.

“Same time next week?” he asked.

There was the script. Clean. Easy. Automatic.

Across from him, she shifted, but not in the way she usually did at the end of a session—no quick gathering of things, no immediate break in eye contact, no subtle retreat back into her shell.

“Yeah,” she said, just as steady.

Another beat passed before either of them moved.

Then she stood.

Rhys followed a second later, slower than he should have been, like there was a delay between the decision and the action. He crossed the room ahead of her, opening the door with a practiced ease that felt strangely disconnected now, like his body was moving through something rehearsed while the rest of him lagged behind.

He stepped back to let her pass.

She brushed by him, close enough that he felt it.

The hallway stretched out in front of them, muted and familiar, the low hum of the office settling back into place around them. It should have grounded him. Usually, it did. The predictability of it, the routine—something to anchor himself to after every session.

He walked beside her in silence. Neither of them spoke, the quiet stretching between them. 

When they reached the waiting area, she left with a quiet, “Bye, Rhysand.” Quiet, but not soft. 

He nodded.

Watched her go.

The door opened, then shut behind her with a soft click that felt louder than it should have. Final in a way he didn’t like.

Rhys stood there a second longer than necessary.

Then—

“Dr. Hale?”

The voice pulled him back.

He turned.

A man was already on his feet, phone tucked away, posture straightening like he’d been waiting for the exact moment it would be appropriate to speak. 

Rhys blinked once, resetting.

Right.

“Evan,” he said, the name coming easily, and just like that, the confident, polished smile slipped back into place. “Thanks for waiting.”

Evan gave a quick nod. “Yeah, of course.”

Rhys gestured down the hall, the motion automatic, familiar in a way that almost felt like relief. “Come on back.”

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Rhys stared at his screen.

The cursor blinked in the search bar, steady and unbothered. Waiting. He hadn’t typed anything yet, which was ridiculous. He knew exactly what he should type, the phrasing, the terminology, the precise way to frame it so the answers would come back clean and clinical.

He also knew exactly what he didn’t want to see.

Therapist boundaries potential dual relationship client what to do

Enter.

The results loaded instantly—articles, PDFs, ethics boards, all of it familiar. The same language he’d used plenty of times before, sitting on the other side of this—clear, firm, unambiguous.

Terminate care. Refer out. Document immediately.

He clicked one link, skimmed it just enough to confirm what he already knew, then closed it.

Another, same thing. The words blurred together after a point, repeating themselves in slightly different formats, none of it new. 

Rhys sat back, dragging a hand over his mouth, the motion rougher than it needed to be. He opened a new tab without thinking too hard about it. 

Therapist attracted to client

Enter.

Different phrasing. Same answers.

Normal. Not actionable. Maintain boundaries.

He huffed a quiet breath, something humorless catching in it.

Not helpful.

Another tab.

What happens if therapist crosses boundary with client

This time, he didn’t press enter right away. His finger hovered over the key, lingering there longer than it should have.

Then—

Enter.

The results loaded. 

Licensing boards. Disciplinary action. Revocation. Lawsuits.

Clearer this time.

More direct.

His jaw tightened.

He clicked one link, then another, but didn’t finish reading either. He didn’t need to. The outcomes were already obvious, spelled out in language that left no room for interpretation. 

He closed them both.

Opened a new tab.

Paused.

This time, his hands didn’t move immediately. They rested against the keyboard, still, like he needed a second longer before deciding how to phrase it—like wording mattered more now than it did a moment ago. 

When he finally typed, it was slower.

Why do I feel like this about someone I shouldn’t

Enter.

Forums, Reddit threads, anonymous usernames asking questions that looked a little too familiar when you stripped away the specifics. Different situations, different details, but the same underlying shape. 

He clicked one.

Scrolled.

Didn’t read closely—just enough to catch the tone of it, the half-answers, the justifications, the way people tried to explain something they didn’t fully understand.

It wasn’t useful. It never was. 

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling for a second before dropping back to the screen.

The cursor blinked again.

Still waiting.

His fingers hovered over the keys, tension settling into them now, into the pause.

Then—

Is it still crossing a boundary if nothing has happened yet

He stared at that one longer than the others.

He didn’t press enter, didn’t need to.

Because he already knew the answer.

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Rhys: Hi. I need to inform you that I won’t be able to continue as your therapist. Please call the office—I’ve already made arrangements for them to connect you with someone else. 

He read it twice. It sounded right. Send. 

The response came faster than he expected. 

(Y/n): what? Why?

Of course she wouldn’t just accept it without explanation. He knew that. He’d expected it. He told himself he didn’t leave it vague just so he could talk to her a little bit longer. 

Rhys: There’s a conflict of interest. I’m sorry. 

He watched the message deliver, watched the read receipt come in, watched as the typing bubble never appeared. 

Rhys exhaled slowly, setting his phone down beside him, like distance might make it easier to ignore. 

Hours passed like that. 

Not doing anything. Not fully thinking, either. Just… sitting with it, the weight of it settling into something heavier the longer it stayed unanswered. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t personal. That this was exactly how it was supposed to go. 

It didn’t change the way his attention kept drifting back to his phone anyway. Each time he picked it up, there was still no reply. Just the same single word taunting him. 

Read.

He shouldn’t text again. 

There was no reason to. He already said what needed to be said. 

And yet. 

Rhys: You’re welcome to switch to our other location if returning here feels uncomfortable. I would strongly recommend continuing to meet with a therapist on a regular basis, and the office can help coordinate that for you. 

The read receipt came instantly. 

Still nothing. 

Rhys set the phone down more deliberately this time. He wasn’t going to pick it back up again. 

He stood, crossed the room, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. 

The first sip burned more than it usually did, but he barely registered it. He stared ahead, unfocused, the glass still in his hand as he took another, then another, until it was empty before he’d fully processed drinking it at all. 

He poured another. 

Downed that one faster. 

A breath left him as he dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing briefly against his eyes before dropping back down. 

Another pour. 

This time he didn’t drink it immediately. 

He took a slower sip, then another, letting it sit on his tongue longer than he needed to before swallowing. It didn’t help. Didn’t dull anything the way it was supposed to. 

He set the glass on the counter, the quiet of the apartment pressing in around him again. 

His phone stayed where he’d left it. 

Unanswered. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

She clicked around her screen, squinting. “Nope. Says here you’re all caught up. We just need your copay for today’s session.”

You stared at her. “Oh.”

And then, after a beat—because apparently you were still capable of manners: “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

You took your usual seat in the waiting room, your name already signed in at the front. The fake fern in the corner had new fairy lights wound through its branches, but the bulbs were unevenly spaced, and one flickered intermittently, like it was trying to die dramatically and wanted witnesses.

You opened your phone and fired off a quick text.

(Y/n): you think he just… didn’t submit it? like on purpose?

The little Delivered tag popped up, but Gwyn didn’t reply right away. She was probably still at her seminar—the one with the truly insufferable lecturer who, according to her, once called Virginia Woolf “a victim of leisure” without a hint of irony. 

You stared down at your screen a little longer than necessary, thumb hovering like it might summon something useful if you wanted it badly enough. 

You’d come clean to her the night you got back from the emergency session. She’d been in the kitchen at that point, sitting cross-legged on a barstool with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk in front of her.

“Gluten free and oat milk!” she’d announced brightly—then caught sight of your face. 

You hadn’t needed to say anything. Your eyes had still been red, your nose blotchy and raw. She’d slid the plate closer to you without a word, the way she did when she knew better than to fill the space herself. And you’d told her everything. 

Your phone buzzed.

Gwyn: OMG do you really think he would

Another buzz. 

Gwyn: someone’s hot for teacher… or i guess hot for client 👀

You made a face, lips pressing together. 

Gwyn: do you think he’s into you

Gwyn: that would be crazy

Gwyn: not totally crazy because you’re hot duh but like… it would be crazy

You rolled your eyes and typed back fast, like speed might keep the thought from sticking.

(Y/n): gwyn stfu no

(Y/n): he’s obviously not

(Y/n): maybe he just forgot

A beat. Then—

Gwyn: omg wait

Gwyn: what if he DID submit it

Gwyn: because the security cameras saw you guys go in late

Gwyn: so he paid it HIMSELF so it wouldn’t look weird that he didn’t charge 👁️👁️

Your thumbs hovered over the screen, heat pooling in your palms. 

(Y/n): shut u—

“(Y/n)?”

You jumped a little—didn’t get to press send. Looked up. 

Rhysand stood in the doorway, posture relaxed, a folder tucked loosely under one arm, like he’d been there the whole time and nothing about that was unusual. 

“Come on back,” he said, tilting his head in that instinctive little this way gesture.

You locked your phone and shoved it deep into your bag like it had betrayed you, then stood. God, he’d probably seen your face turn red. How long had he been there? It couldn’t have been long. No—there were other people in the waiting room. It would’ve looked weird. 

Shouldering your bag, you smoothed your hands down your jeans like that might somehow iron out the nerves humming under your skin.

He didn’t say anything else—just turned and started down the hall, casual as ever, the soft thud of his shoes against the carpet the only sound between you.

You followed a beat too closely.

Every step felt loud. Heavy. Like you were doing something wrong just by walking behind him—like proximity itself was a mistake you hadn’t meant to make.

The hallway wasn’t long, but it stretched like a mile. You kept your eyes on the floor, but still caught the clean lines of his shirt as he walked ahead of you. Crisp collar. Cuffs buttoned. Tucked in like always, not a wrinkle in sight. His hair, too—precise as ever, parted like it had never dared fall out of place.

He opened the office door with one hand, still balancing the folder under his arm, and nudged it open with his shoulder. You hesitated for half a second before stepping through. 

The room—unsurprisingly—looked exactly the same. 

Same couch. Same lamp. Same faint, vanilla-cedar scent you’d never asked about but always noticed. But you didn’t move to sit right away. You just stood there, bag still slung over your shoulder, wondering if your face was still blotchy. Wondering if he’d somehow known about the last five unsent texts you’d typed up for him over the last few days. 

Rhysand closed the door behind him and crossed the room. He didn’t look at you at first—just set the folder on the side table, adjusted something near his desk. Then finally turned, his gaze sliding to yours. 

And paused. 

It wasn’t long. Just a moment. A flicker of something in his eyes that made your stomach lurch and your skin flush hot all over again. 

You averted your gaze immediately and moved to sit before you could overthink it any harder. 

The couch gave under your weight like it always did—too soft, a little too deep. You tucked your hands between your knees and focused on the little dish of peppermints on the table, suddenly wishing you’d grabbed one. 

Rhysand settled in across from you—not beside you this time. Not like a few days ago. Just the regular chair. 

Professional distance re-established. 

Fine. Good. Normal. 

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet but even. “How are you doing?”

It was a simple question. One he’d asked you so many times before. But your brain still scrambled for a neutral answer—one that didn’t sound like I’m mortified you saw me collapse into a puddle of trauma and hyperventilation or Why didn’t you charge me, seriously, what does that mean, do I owe you my soul now or—

You cleared your throat. “Fine.”

A pause. Then: “Okay.”

He didn’t write anything down. Just nodded, like he was waiting for the real answer underneath it. 

You crossed one leg over the other. Then uncrossed it. Your voice came out quieter the second time. “I, um. I asked the front desk about… billing. From the other night.”

Rhysand tilted his head slightly. Said nothing. 

“They said there was nothing pending. Just my copay for today.”

His face didn’t change. “That’s right.”

You waited for more. An explanation. A reason. Anything.

It didn’t come.

“…Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. “Because it wasn’t a session. It was support.”

“That sounds like a loophole,” you muttered.

That time, he smiled. Not wide. Just a quiet, knowing thing. “Maybe.”

You exhaled slowly, the breath leaving you in a way that felt heavier than it should have. Still flustered. Still not sure what any of this meant.

But he didn’t press or explain further, only let it sit there between you like something already understood.

Finally, you nodded and looked down at your hands.

And Rhysand—quietly, easily—shifted the conversation back in the effortless way only he could.

“So,” he said gently, once the silence had stretched too long. “How’s today?”

You shrugged, eyes still on your hands. “Fine.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “For calling. For… showing up like that.”

Rhysand was quiet for a beat.

Then, “You called. That’s progress.”

You looked up. He was watching you steadily, voice flat in that calm, measured way of his.

“You don’t have to apologize for being human,” he said. “Or for needing someone.”

You nodded once, slowly. “It used to feel worse when I felt better. Remember that?”

His brow lifted slightly. “And now?”

“It doesn’t.”

He didn’t answer right away. Let it settle.

Something flickered in his eyes—pleased, maybe. Or proud. Or something you didn’t quite have the language for yet.

“That’s not nothing,” he said finally.

No notepad today. No structured intervention. Just space.

Maybe too much of it. You’d liked when he’d sat in the armchair beside your sofa—close enough to feel present without tipping into something harder to name. 

You talked, a little. Not about anything major. Just the usual check-in: a few thoughts about your schedule, a brief update on the cognitive distortions list he’d had you keep for the week. You said all the right words. So did he. 

But it didn’t feel like it usually did.

It felt like holding the edges of something fragile—like if either of you said too much, or not enough, it would split down the middle and leave you both stranded.

He glanced down at his wrist eventually. 

The movement was small but it drew your attention anyway—like most things he did. The watch caught the light as he checked the time, all clean lines and quiet expense, sitting perfectly against his skin. The edge of ink peeked out beneath his sleeve when he shifted, familiar enough now that your mind filled in the rest without asking permission. You looked away a second too late. 

He stood first. Smoothed a hand over his thigh like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “See you Wednesday?”

You nodded, grabbing your bag. “Yeah.”

But your throat was tight. Your skin was humming. And when you passed him at the door, you didn’t look at his face.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Three weeks passed.

You still saw him Wednesdays at 4:30. Always on time. Always the same room. The blinds stayed open, letting in a steady wash of late-afternoon light that never quite shifted, as if the day itself had stalled there with you. Things settled. Or pretended to. 

The air in his office lost its edge. Your breathing evened out faster, no longer something you had to negotiate with yourself. The weight in your chest still existed, but it no longer clawed—it pressed instead—manageable, familiar. He said you were making progress. 

You started noticing patterns. Catching your own spirals as they formed, hearing the loops in real time. Sometimes you’d stop mid-sentence and correct yourself, offering a quiet, “Actually, no, I think I just defaulted to catastrophizing.” Sometimes that made him nod. Sometimes, rarely, it made him smile. And when he did, it felt like clearing a level you hadn’t known you were playing.

One night, you texted him. 

Just a quick question—clarification on one of the worksheets he’d sent about behavioral activation strategies, broken down into neat, reasonable steps, like feelings might eventually learn to cooperate if given enough structure.

(Y/n): hey sorry if this is dumb, but for the “low stakes tasks” do you mean like errands or like… emotional things i’ve been putting off?

He didn’t answer right away. 

For one anxious hour, you were certain you’d crossed some invisible line—asked wrong, misunderstood the rules you were supposed to know by now. 

Then:

Rhysand: Not dumb at all. Either one works. Which one feels harder to do?

Dr. Hale always texted with proper capitalization and punctuation. He never used your name. He also never said things like let’s save this for session or can you bring that up next week?

He was always professional. 

But never cold.

Sessions grew lighter. Not easier, exactly—but smoother. Like walking a path you were finally starting to recognize beneath your feet. Sometimes you’d sit forward on the couch and say, “Okay, I know this is me looping again, but—”

“That’s part of the work,” he’d say before you could finish. “Noticing it. Saying it out loud.”

It didn’t feel like praise. It felt earned.

You didn’t bring up that night again. 

Neither did he. 

And now you were in Gwyn’s car, gripping the grab handle above the door like a crucifix and trying not to flinch every time she merged without checking her blind spot.

“This is how I die,” you muttered as the tires squealed through another ill-advised turn.

Gwyn laughed, one hand loose on the wheel, the other flicking her signal on two seconds too late. “You’re so dramatic. I’ve literally never been in an accident.”

“That’s not comforting. That’s foreshadowing.”

“We’re going to a bar,” she said, “not a battlefield.”

“Then drive like it! You nearly killed a biker.”

“He waved!”

“He flipped you off!”

Gwyn rolled her eyes but eased her foot off the gas—just a little. “You’re lucky I’m driving. You’d have to get cool with a lot of stuff really quickly if I was drinking tonight.”

You groaned. “Remind me why I agreed to this?”

She grinned. “Because it’s been a month and a half since you let yourself have any fun, and I said group hang and you folded like a paper crane. Also—your eyeliner looks amazing tonight.”

You tried to stay annoyed, but your lip twitched. “You’re manipulative.”

“I’m effective.” She glanced at you. “And you do look hot. Even if you look like you’re about to jump out of your own skin.”

You tugged at the soft neckline of your top. “It’s not the outfit. It’s… I don’t know. Nerves.”

Gwyn didn’t comment on that. Just signaled far too late again and turned into the parking lot of The Hawk—a neighborhood bar that smelled like old wood and confidence issues.

Cassian was already there. 

He stood when he saw you, looking the same and not—the same warm grin, the same broad-shouldered confidence. But something about him felt changed. Sharpened. Or maybe you were the one who’d changed.

“Look who it is,” he said, arms opening like a peace offering. “Hey, stranger.”

You hugged him, brief but genuine. “Hey.”

He pulled back, nodding at Gwyn. “You letting her out of the apartment now?”

“She bribed me,” Gwyn said sweetly, sliding into the booth. “Cupcakes and emotional blackmail.”

“Classic,” Cassian muttered, grinning. 

You appreciated that she hadn’t mentioned how close you’d come to backing out. You took the seat across from her. Cassian slid in beside you. 

Close. Not too close. 

The first ten minutes were fine. Surface-level. Beers ordered, condensation pooling on the table. The car was loud without being crowded, all dark wood and scuffed floors and a playlist that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be nostalgic or not. Someone laughed too loudly at the bar. A server squeezed past with a tray of drinks. 

It had been almost two months since you’d slept together. Long enough that it shouldn’t feel this strange.

Cass kept glancing over at you, like there was something he wanted to say and couldn’t quite place. You weren’t sure if you wanted him to try.

The pauses between comments started stretching. Gwyn, for all her charm, seemed to be picking up on it too. She reached for her drink a little too quickly, laughing a little too hard.

You were just about to excuse yourself—to the bathroom, to the sidewalk, to anywhere with oxygen—when the door opened behind you.

You turned.

No.

No, that couldn’t be a motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm.

You blinked once. Then again.

Lucien stood there like a punchline with perfect timing, wind-tousled and smug, the sleeves of his button-up rolled with deliberate negligence. He looked infuriatingly pleased with himself, like he’d curated this entrance down to the second.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said easily, adjusting the helmet against his hip. “Parking out there’s a nightmare.”

You stared. “You ride a motorcycle?”

Lucien gave a modest half-shrug. “Only when I feel like being insufferable.”

His gaze flicked over you, amused. “What—did you think I walked to lab every day in those boots?”

“I assumed you took the bus,” you said. “Like a normal college student.”

“That’s my cover,” he replied solemnly. “Helps throw off campus security.”

Gwyn snorted into her drink. Cassian—who had stayed quiet, but observant—lifted his brows and nodded once. A small, unmistakable sign of respect. 

Lucien slid into the booth beside Gwyn with the ease of someone who never questioned whether he belonged. “Hope I didn’t miss anything good.”

“Just Gwyn’s fifth near-death experience behind the wheel,” you said, finally settling back against the seat.

“Hey,” Gwyn protested, raising her glass. “We made it, didn’t we?”

Lucien accepted the IPA you’d ordered for him, condensation slick against his fingers. He lifted it in salute. “To survival.”

And just like that, the tension cracked.

The table shifted. The air loosened. You felt your lungs expand properly for the first time since you’d arrived. Cassian leaned back, some of the tightness draining from his shoulders. Gwyn’s laughter came easier now. Lucien threaded himself into the rhythm without effort, already weaving himself into the dynamic.

It was… fine. It was good, even.

So why were you suddenly hyper-aware of how long it had been since you and Cassian had laughed like this?

“Wait,” Cassian said, pointing at Lucien’s helmet, “what kind of bike are we talking?”

“’98 Triumph Thunderbird,” Lucien said, unapologetically smug. “She’s temperamental. Like me.”

“That’s not what temperamental means,” you said, taking a sip of your drink.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, innocence weaponized.

Cassian looked deeply impressed. “Badass,” he muttered, then leaned over to Gwyn. “You know, I rode a motorcycle once.”

“You rode a tricycle,” Gwyn said without looking at him, “during one of my sorority’s fundraisers. You were dressed as Cupid and fell into a bush.”

“I won that fundraiser,” Cassian shot back. “You’re welcome for the community garden, by the way.”

Gwyn gave him a flat look. “My point stands.”

“Anyway,” you cut in before Cassian could invent another injury, “Lucien’s whole disguise thing makes a weird kind of sense. It’s always the nice, quiet guys who have like… switchblades and leather jackets.”

Lucien grinned. “No comment.”

“You color-code our lab binders.”

“And yet,” he said, lifting his glass, “I remain unknowable.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Two hours later, the table looked like it had lived a little. A scatter of empty glasses, salt rings and condensation halos, laughter that came easier now—looser, like something that had finally found its footing. 

Cassian had gone off on a tangent about how if Gwyn ever got into a bar fight, his money was on her, no question. 

“She’d use a straw as a weapon somehow,” he insisted, gesturing emphatically. “You don’t understand. She’s got those crazy eyes.”

Gwyn snorted and finished off the last bit of her soda. “You’re just saying that because I leg pressed more than you at the gym that time we went.”

“You cheated,” Cassian said. “I can’t prove it but I know you did something.”

Lucien, at some point, had taken it upon himself to teach Gwyn some French. 

“Putain de merde,” he said carefully. “Pretty standard, but gets the point across.”

Gwyn squinted in concentration, then declared, “Poutine de merde.”

Lucien blinked. Once. “You just called me ‘shitty poutine.’”

She waved her straw like a conductor’s baton. “Close enough.”

“You know,” she added, leaning in with sudden sincerity, “you’re a lot more fun than I thought you’d be, Lucien.”

“I get that a lot.”

“I mean, like—for a STEM guy. Most of you are allergic to daylight and interpersonal contact.”

Lucien pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “And yet I shine.”

Cassian squinted at him. “Wait, I never actually asked—how do you two,” he gestured between you, “know each other again?”

“She lives in my lab,” Lucien said smoothly.

“I do not live in your lab,” you said. “It’s not yours, and I just happen to spend seventy percent of my time there.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Lucien is also the only person who reads my drafts without crying,” you added.

“I cried once,” he said mildly. “And it was because you included five different footnote formats on one page. I feared for your soul.”

Gwyn leaned in minutely. “Wait, is that the stats thing you were writing when you missed the midterm?”

You nodded, but the words landed somewhere low and familiar, a dull echo in your chest that hadn’t fully stopped reverberating yet.

But then Cassian nudged your foot under the table. 

Not hard. Not playful. Just enough to remind you where you were. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. “I still don’t understand a single thing you study. But I brag about you all the time.”

You looked at him, surprised—and felt your mouth curve into a slow, genuine smile before you could stop it. 

“That’s true,” Gwyn chimed in. “He once described you as ‘sexy and smart and scary, like a science vampire.’”

“I said that in confidence,” Cassian muttered when the table laughed.

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried you’ll steal my labmate away?”

Cassian met his gaze with exaggerated seriousness. “Yes.”

No. Lucien absolutely did not need to worry about that.

The laughter rolled on. Another clink of glasses. The warm, golden buzz of the night swelling and stretching around you, soft at the edges, fizzy in your veins. And still—without meaning to—you kept catching yourself watching Cassian when he wasn’t looking. 

Not because you wanted him. Not like that. 

But because you used to know him, and now (for some reason) he felt like someone you’d have to meet all over again, eventually.

The ache that surfaced wasn’t about missing him, it was about missing how simple it had all been. 

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you were standing. The booth bench scraped softly as you slipped free, muttering a half-hearted, “Be right back,” without waiting for anyone’s response. 

You didn’t stumble, exactly—but your arm clipped the edge of the table, and the floor dipped just enough beneath your heel to remind you that maybe you’d stayed a little longer than you meant to. 

Or that you’d had more drinks than planned, at the very least. 

The bathroom was colder than you expected, tile-on-tile cold, the kind that crept up through the soles of your boots and settled in your toes. The walls were a tired off-white that had given up pretending to be clean years ago, and the mirror above the sink was speckled with water spots and fingerprints that never quite wiped away. 

Not just cool—stingy with disinfectant and old bleach. Tile and porcelain and the faint tang of whatever cleaner they used between rushes. The bar’s playlist pulsed through the walls, bass-heavy and insistent, rattling the metal paper towel dispenser, the sink handles humming faintly under your palms.

The overhead light flickered once, twice. Fluorescent. Unforgiving.

You braced your hands on the sink and leaned closer to the mirror.

Your mascara had smudged beneath one eye, a faint shadow you didn’t remember putting there. Your lipstick—something bolder than usual tonight, something intentional—had faded at the center. Your hair still looked okay. Mostly. You dragged your fingers through it anyway, like it might fix something. Like you might.

The mirror offered no commentary.

Neither did the drinks curling warm and loose in your veins. Or the way the quiet in here—cool tile, buzzing lights—made the warmth at the table feel far away. Like a room you’d stepped out of and weren’t sure how to re-enter.

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket. You didn’t check it.

But you did open your messages.

Scrolled—without thinking—until you found his name.

Rhysand.

You stared at the screen for a second, thumb hovering. Then you typed. 

(Y/n): you said to lyk if i ever thought abt doing him again

You didn’t send it. Not yet.

You reread it once. Then again. The words felt strange and familiar at once.

Your thumb hovered.

Then—tap. 

Sent.

Your heartbeat suddenly felt very loud. You watched the screen like it might flinch back at you. One second passed. Then another.

The reply came faster than you expected.

Rhysand: That was a general offer.Rhysand: But I’m listening.

You swallowed. Something warm fluttered low in your stomach.

You didn’t think. You typed.

(Y/n): thinking abt doing it again

(Y/n): and dropping him again

(Y/n): in that order

The typing bubble appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

Rhysand: Dangerous habit.

You smiled despite yourself, shoulder pressing lightly into the tiled wall.

(Y/n): mm but fun tho

(Y/n): very fun actually

Rhysand: Is that your professional opinion?

Your lips curved wider. The mirror caught it—sharp and sideways, like it was in on the joke.

(Y/n): god no we both know im not a pro

(Y/n): if i was a pro i wouldnt be here right

(Y/n): lol

(Y/n): but if i WERE a pro

(Y/n): my profesh opinion is i need to be supervised

You barely had time to brace for it. 

Rhysand: Lucky for you, I’m very good at that.

Your breath hitched, and you stared at the words longer than you meant to. You knew—knew—they could still be read as dry. As neutral. As him playing along in that careful, calibrated way of his. But—

But.

Your thumbs were already moving.

(Y/n): whats the going rate for supervision these days

(Y/n): asking for a friend

Pause. Bubble. Bubble disappears. Comes back. 

Rhysand: Depends on the type.

(Y/n): omg theres TYPES now??

(Y/n): system is rigged

Rhysand: We’re outside the system now.

Rhysand: This is a specialty service.

You exhaled slowly as the room buzzed. You paced slowly around the room in an attempt to walk it off. And the warmth in your chest had changed—less liquid now, more electric.

(Y/n): lmk if u ever need a reference

(Y/n): i know a girl

Rhysand: Do I?

Your reflection in the mirror blinked back at you—flushed, tipsy, far too amused with herself.

This was getting… weird.

But not in the way that made you stop.

(Y/n): as a matter of fact u do mhm

Pause. Bubble. 

Rhysand: Have you been drinking?

Heat crept up your neck.

You tried to think of the right way to answer and accidentally typed—

(Y/n): just a bitttt

(Y/n): just like

(Y/n): soft around the edges in the bathroom of this smelly bar

You winced. 

(Y/n): which sounds worse typed out tbh

(Y/n): ignore that

(Y/n): im not like. DRUNK

(Y/n): im sober enough to know this will be super embarrassing tomorrow

(Y/n): not sober enough to particularly care rn

A shorter pause this time. 

Rhysand: Not my usual prescription, but if it’s working…

You shifted your weight, hip pressing into the counter, a palm flat against the cool porcelain.

(Y/n): its not not working

(Y/n): things are weird out there

(Y/n): weird with him

(Y/n): i feel like a balloon

Rhysand: Untethered?

(Y/n): no like. full of air

(Y/n): like if someone poked me i’d fly away or burst

(Y/n): one of those

(Y/n): ugh ignore me this is why no one invites their therapist to drinks

Rhysand: I’ll try not to take that personally.

You breathed a laugh. 

(Y/n): u should

(Y/n): i’d absolutely invite u

(Y/n): but i’d only talk after 2.5 drinks so u cant judge me

Rhysand: I’d still judge you.

Rhysand: Quietly.

(Y/n): rude

(Y/n): but fair ig

(Y/n): u ever get that thing

(Y/n): where ur not lonely but ur still like.

(Y/n): aware of being alone

You stared at the sink drain while you waited. 

Rhysand: Sometimes.

(Y/n): it’s annoying

(Y/n): anyway sorry lol idk why im texting u

Rhysand: You needed to.

Rhysand: It’s allowed.

A pause—longer, this time. Your thumb hovered. 

Then—

(Y/n): do u ever miss things that weren’t even good for u

Rhysand: More often than I’d like to admit.

(Y/n): mm

(Y/n): ok yeah maybe u do get it

(Y/n): stupid annoying therapist powers

Rhysand: Occupational hazard.

(Y/n): ugh

(Y/n): ok

(Y/n): i should go back

(Y/n): gwyn’s gonna think i fell in

Rhysand: She’d probably come rescue you.

(Y/n): yeah

(Y/n): she’s got a scary sixth sense for people avoiding social gatherings in bathrooms (always me)

A beat passed—just long enough that you could almost hear him laugh. Not the polite one. Not the careful, professional curve of amusement he sometimes allowed himself in session. This was the softer laugh. The quieter one. The one he let slip when something genuinely caught him off guard, when he forgot—just for a second—to guard the edges.

You found yourself imagining what a full laugh from him would sound like. The kind that lit up his whole face. The kind that cracked the measured calm and revealed something warmer underneath, something a little wild. You wanted to see it—right here, right now—and the wanting settled in your chest with a dull, insistent ache.

His face, just inches from yours. That rare smile breaking wide instead of careful. You wanted it badly enough that it surprised you.

(Y/n): ok really going now

(Y/n): thanks

(Y/n): for being nice i mean

(Y/n): and not like. therapist-y

Rhysand: You’re welcome.

You hesitated, phone still warm in your hand. You were ready—almost—to slide it back into your bag, to shut this door gently before it became something else. And then—

Rhysand: You’re easier to talk to like this.

Rhysand: You say what you mean. 

Your stomach flipped, sharp and unmistakable.

(Y/n): drunk?

Rhysand: I thought you weren’t drunk.

(Y/n): ur right im not

(Y/n): like this how

A pause stretched.

A typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Came back.

Vanished again.

Your phone sat quiet in your palm, screen glowing, as you watched it like it might blink out if you looked away. Your pulse thudded low and steady, loud enough that you could feel it behind your ribs.

…

Then, finally—

Rhysand: Informally

That was all.

But it was already too late. You were smiling. 

No punctuation… Nice. 

(Y/n): lol ok informally it is

(Y/n): u should charge extra for informally

(Y/n): i’d pay it

(Y/n): god forbid we ever talk formally

(Y/n): id prob kms

(Y/n): not literally

(Y/n): poor choice of words

(Y/n): dont baker act me pls

This time, you didn’t wait for a reply.

You let the phone rest in your hand for a few seconds longer, pulse still humming softly, like something had been switched on and forgotten. When you glanced up, the mirror caught your expression—flushed, wry, a little undone, like you’d said something truer than you meant to.

You slipped the phone back into your pocket and turned on the faucet, letting cold water run over your hands for longer than necessary. The chill grounded you. Or tried to. You watched it bead and slide over your knuckles, as if it might carry the feeling away with it.

It didn’t.

You dried your palms on a paper towel so thin it barely qualified, squared your shoulders, and took one last look at yourself before stepping back out into the noise of the bar.

Gwyn spotted you immediately, waving you over with cheeks flushed pink from laughter. Cassian lifted his drink in a lazy toast to something in a story Lucien had been recounting. 

Everything looked exactly the same.

No one had noticed you were gone too long.

You slid back into your seat like nothing had happened.

And smiled like nothing had changed.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You sat in the same chair you always did, but you weren’t stiff in it this time. One leg was tucked loosely beneath you, your bag dropped at your feet instead of held close, your posture relaxed in a way that would have felt impossible when you’d first walked in nearly three months ago. The room was just as quiet as it had always been, but it no longer pressed in on you. It simply existed around you, something to move through rather than something to endure. 

You glanced at the clock. 

Six minutes to go. 

Your phone rested loosely in your hand, screen dim but still awake, your thumb hovering without really doing anything. You weren’t scrolling or checking anything in particular, as if it had become part of the waiting rather than a distraction from it. And maybe that was the problem now, because without anything to occupy you, your thoughts had nowhere else to go. 

They circled, unhelpfully, back to Monday. 

The bathroom. The mirror. The way your own expression had looked slightly unfamiliar to you—more open and amused with itself than you’d seen in some time. The messages, stacked one after another, reckless in a way that hadn’t quite felt reckless at the time. 

Informally. 

You exhaled slowly, pressing your thumb more firmly against the edge of your phone as if that might ground you back into the present. It didn’t. The memory didn’t feel distant enough to dismiss, nor sharp enough to regret outright. It just lingered, warm and unsettled, sitting somewhere between something you could laugh off and something you weren’t ready to look at too closely. 

What made it worse—if worse was even the right word—was that you remembered all of it clearly. 

The receptionist glanced up briefly, offering a polite automatic smile. You returned it without thinking, then let your gaze drop again before she could read anything more into your expression. You weren’t nervous in the way you used to be. There was no tightness in your chest, no rehearsing of how you’d deflect, no quiet urge to stand and leave before your name was called. 

If anything, what you felt now was harder to define. 

Not anxiety. Not exactly anticipation. 

Just a heightened awareness that seemed to settle under your skin and stay there, quiet but persistent. 

The door to the hallway opened right on time. 

A couple stepped out first.

For a second, you didn’t recognize what you were seeing. This was the same couple you usually saw before your session. They weren’t tense, or brittle, or barely holding themselves together the way they’d been a few months ago. There was no sharp edge to their movements, no words thrown like weapons under their breath. 

Instead, the man held the door open for her, one hand braced against it as she stepped through. She said something quietly and he smiled, small but genuine, like it wasn’t forced out of politeness but offered without thought. She bumped her shoulder lightly into his as she passed, not quite playful, but close enough that it lingered somewhere in that direction. 

They didn’t look perfect. 

But they looked… okay. 

You leaned back in your chair without realizing it, something in your shoulders loosening. 

Huh. 

“Ready?”

You startled, just slightly. 

Rhysand stood in the doorway, one hand still resting lightly against the frame, his gaze on you. There was something faintly amused in his expression. 

You straightened a little, pushing yourself up from the chair as your grip shifted around your phone. “Yeah—sorry,” you said, a small breath of a laugh slipping out before you could stop it.

He stepped back slightly to give you space to pass, and as you moved toward him, you caught that same brief flicker in your chest again—the one that had been harder to name since Monday. 

The hall was quiet. It always was, obviously, but today it felt more noticeable, stretching out between your footsteps as you fell into step beside him. The muted carpet softened the sound of movement, the overhead lights steady and unchanging, everything exactly as it had been before. 

You kept your gaze forward, aware of him in your periphery in a way that felt sharper than it should have. He was right there. And with that came the sudden, unwelcome return of every thought you’d successfully avoided all morning. 

You’re going to have to address it.

The realization dropped into place with quiet certainty. 

The texts. The fact that you had very clearly crossed into territory that did not belong to either of you. 

Your grip tightened around your phone as you walked. 

Okay. 

Fine. 

That was fine. 

You could handle that. 

You’d just apologize—keep it simple, keep it clean. You’d say you were drunk, that you didn’t mean anything by it, that it wouldn’t happen again. That was reasonable. Professional, even. You could reset things, put them back where they were supposed to be. 

The thought should’ve settled you. 

It didn’t. 

Because your brain, unhelpfully, chose that exact moment to supply the part you hadn’t been planning to think about, especially not with him right in front of you now, holding the door to his office open.

Not the bar. 

Not the bathroom. 

After. 

Back home, the quiet of your room settling in around you, the buzz of alcohol blurring the edges of your judgment. The way your thoughts had circled back, uninvited and persistent, until they weren’t really thoughts anymore so much as something you felt, something you leaned into before you could talk yourself out of it. 

It hadn’t even been a clear image at first. Just fragments. The cadence of his voice, low and measured even through text on a screen. The way his attention seemed to land fully when it found you. And then, inevitably, your mind had started filling in the rest. 

Pulled from memory and inference and the quiet, dangerous curiosity you’d been trying not to look at too closely. The line of his shoulders when he leaned forward in his chair. The way his hands moved when he spoke. The stillness he carried, the kind that didn’t feel empty but contained, like there was always more beneath it than he let show. 

You’d let the idea of him sharpen, take shape, shift from something abstract to something closer, warmer, harder to dismiss. It settled into your body before you could redirect it, before you could remind yourself why you shouldn’t be thinking about him like that at all. 

And you hadn’t stopped. 

Your hand drifted between your legs, slow at first, almost absent, your mind fixed not on what you were doing but on him—the curve of his mouth when he almost smiled, on the way his voice dropped when he said something sly. On the tattoos you’d only ever caught glimpses of, dark ink slipping just past the cuffs of his shirt, peeking up over the collar, disappearing beneath the fabric you’d suddenly found yourself wanting gone. 

You’d wondered how far they went. Across his chest maybe. Down his back. Over muscle you could only piece together from the way his shirts pulled when he moved, from the quiet strength in his posture, from the controlled way he held himself like he was always aware of exactly how much space he took up.

Your imagination had filled in the rest without hesitation. 

Broad shoulders. Solid. Warm. The kind that would press you into place, firmly enough that you’d feel it everywhere. His arms braced around you, steady, unyielding, his hands—

You swallowed, even now as you took your seat, remembering. 

Precise. That was the word your mind had settled on. Controlled. Like he would know exactly what he was doing, exactly how to move, how to touch, how to take his time with you. 

And those fingers. Long. Intentional. 

Better than yours. 

You’d let yourself picture them—hadn’t tried to stop it as you’d dragged one through the slickness—imagining the way they’d move with that same precision, the same quiet certainty that made it impossible to look away from him when he spoke. 

Your breath had caught, your other hand coming up instinctively, muffling the sound before you could fully register it.

And still, you hadn’t stopped. 

“—busy morning?”

The present snapped back into place so quickly it almost disoriented you. 

You blinked, the room coming back into focus, the quiet hum of the noisemaker—him, right there across from you, looking at you expectantly. 

“Mm—yeah,” you said, the word coming out breathier than you meant it to, your voice smoothing itself out as you leaned back into the couch. “Nothing dramatic,” you added, a faint exhale slipping out as you dragged your attention fully into the present. “Just… classes, lab stuff, people.”

Rhysand nodded once, pen turning slowly between his fingers, his attention steady but not pressing. “End of semester stuff?”

“Exactly,” you breathed a laugh. “Everyone’s a little…” you gestured vaguely, searching for the word, “on edge.”

A brief pause settled between you, not uncomfortable, but long enough to feel intentional. He didn’t look away, didn’t rush to fill it, and for a second you had the distinct sense that he was deciding something. 

“So,” he said, tone still even, almost casual, “out for drinks on a Monday night.”

Your stomach dropped. 

“Celebrating something, or should I be worried?”

“Nothing that crazy,” you said, shaking your head lightly. “I just—last time my friends asked me to go out, I bailed, and that’s when I had that huge breakdown. So I figured I probably shouldn’t keep doing that.”

Rhysand nodded once, but didn’t write anything down. Didn’t look away.

“And I knew he’d be there,” you added, with a vague, noncommittal gesture. “Which is… fine. We’re still—” you hesitated briefly, searching for the right word in the hem of your sleeve and not quite finding one, “friends? I think? In a weird, slightly questionable way, but still.”

A faint huff of amusement came from Rhysand, surprising you enough that you glanced up at him. There was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, subtle but unmistakable, the kind he didn’t always bother to hide anymore. It made something in your chest shift.  

“And you texted me.” He said it lightly.

Your stomach dropped a second time, sharper now. 

You held his gaze for longer than you meant to before looking away, your fingers tracing absently along the seam of your sleeve. 

“Yeah,” you said, quieter. “I did.”

A small pause settled. 

You exhaled slowly. “I was drunk,” you added, the explanation coming out automatically. “Not gone, but… enough that my judgment wasn’t exactly great.”

He didn’t interrupt. 

Didn’t immediately agree with you, either, which was worse. 

“It won’t happen again,” you said, a flicker of something defensive creeping in before you could stop it. “I shouldn’t have—crossed that line. I’m sorry.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, one ankle crossing over the opposite knee, pen turning once between his fingers before going still. 

“You didn’t say anything that wasn’t already there,” he said. 

What?

“That doesn’t make our exchange appropriate,” he added, more measured now. “But I won’t pretend it came out of nowhere.”

You didn’t respond right away—couldn’t. How the hell were you supposed to?

So you did what you always did when something got a little too close to being real.

You kept talking. 

“My roommate drove us,” you said, a touch too quickly. “Gwyn. She’s the one who’s convinced she’s failing everything even though she’s not. I remember she was freaking out about a midterm and ended up getting an 85 on it. Anyway, she’s… alarmingly good at getting you drunk in a way that sneaks up on you.”

Your gaze met his briefly, the words coming a little faster now, a little less filtered. 

“And my labmate was there too—Lucien. We don’t really hang out much outside the lab, but he’s actually really cool. Like, surprisingly normal for someone who volunteers to do unpaid labor with me at the asscrack of dawn.”

You paused for half a second, something clicking into place mid-thought. 

“Wait,” you said, sitting up slightly. “I haven’t shown you what any of them look like, have I?”

He opened his mouth like he might answer, probably with something redirecting, but you were already reaching for your phone. 

“Not that it matters,” you said, unlocking it and scrolling, “I just feel like I talk about these people all the time and you have no visual reference.”

“You don’t have to—” Rhysand started.

“Too late,” you cut in lightly, tapping into Instagram. “This is for my own benefit at this point.”

You shifted a little closer to the edge of the couch, angling the phone so he could see without having to lean too far in. He did anyway, just slightly.

You scrolled for a second, thumb flicking quickly, then slowed. 

“Okay—this is Lucien.”

The photo was one of those deceptively casual shots that was very obviously curated. He was leaning against the side of his motorcycle, sunlight catching the edges of his hair, expression relaxed in a way that probably took effort to look so effortless. One hand rested loosely in his pocket, the other holding his helmet at his side. 

You glanced between the screen and Rhys, watching his reaction more than the image itself. 

“He looks exactly like a Lucien, right?” you said. “Like if you asked someone to picture a guy named Lucien, this is what they’d come up with.”

Rhysand’s mouth curved a bit more as he took it in. “I see what you mean.”

“Told you.”

You swiped away from the app, opening your photos instead, scrolling a little more aimlessly this time. 

“Okay, this is Gwyn.”

You found it after a second and tilted the screen toward him again. 

It was clearly taken without her noticing—mid-laugh, head thrown back slightly, hair falling out of whatever attempt she’d made to tie it up. There was something unguarded about it, bright in a way that felt easy rather than performative. A half-melted cup of frozen yogurt sat in front of her, spoon somewhere off-frame. 

“She’s going to kill me if she ever finds out I’m showing people this,” you added, though there wasn’t much apology in your voice. 

“My lips are sealed,” Rhysand said. “Legally.” But his gaze lingered longer on this photo than the last, something softer settling into his expression. 

You rolled your eyes and added, “But, yeah, this is her, like… ninety percent of the time.”

“She seems…” he started, then adjusted, “easy to be around.”

“Yeah,” you replied, a little more quietly. “She is.”

You pulled the phone back, your thumb hesitating for a moment before you started scrolling again. 

This time took longer. You had to scroll back up your camera roll, flicking past photos that blurred together: screenshots, random moments, things that didn’t matter. Your pace slowed without you meaning it to, your focus narrowing the further you moved back. 

Rhys didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush you. You were suddenly very aware of that. 

“Hang on,” you murmured, more to yourself than him. 

Another swipe. Then another. 

“There.”

Your voice shifted slightly as you turned the phone toward him. 

“And this… is Cassian.”

The photo was different from the others. 

Less curated than Lucien's, less candid than Gwyn’s, it was something in between. You were in it too, which was hard to ignore. It had been taken at some point you hadn’t thought much about at the time, close enough that your shoulder was angled into his, his arm slung loosely behind you like it had landed there without a second thought. 

He wasn’t looking at the camera. 

He was looking at you. 

Mid-something—mid-sentence, maybe, or mid-laugh—the expression on his face open in a way that didn’t quite match the way you’d been describing things. 

You didn’t say anything else right away. 

For a second, you were more aware of Rhysand than the photo. Of the way his attention had gone completely still, of the silence stretching just a little too long in the space between you. 

Not uncomfortable, but… you couldn’t put your finger on it. 

You pulled the phone back slightly, glancing up at him. 

Something had shifted. 

You couldn’t tell what. 

Only that whatever it was, it hadn’t been there a moment ago. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The room was painfully quiet, the kind of silence that made every small sound feel amplified: the low hum of the air conditioner overhead, the faint creak of the chair as you shifted your weight, the soft tap-tap-tapping of the receptionist’s acrylic nails against her keyboard. 

You glanced toward the stack of magazines on the table across from you, their covers promising quick fixes and better living. They felt out of place here, or maybe you did. Either way, you didn’t reach for one. Instead, you shifted in your seat again, trying to ignore the itch to leave that was slowly creeping up your spine. 

You’d been here before—well, not here-here, but close enough. Same room, same silence. Same dread sitting heavy in your chest. Dr. Vestra had been… fine. Kind, in the way dentists were kind when they asked if you flossed regularly—it didn’t matter what you said—they knew the truth. 

You weren’t sure why you ghosted her. Well, that wasn't entirely true. It had been three months since your last session, and at first, you’d convinced yourself you were just too busy to go back. Eventually, though, it had just been easier to let it go than explain why you weren’t coming back. 

Now, here you were. New office, new therapist, same old dread clawing its way up your spine. Starting over. Again. 

You tapped your fingers against your arm, a nervous rhythm you recognized but couldn’t quite stop. Starting over was exhausting—this wouldn’t be the first time. The same questions, the same explanations, the same half-truths. How much did you share? How much could you trust someone else? And how many sessions would it take before you hit that wall again, where talking felt like a chore instead of a relief?

It wasn’t like you didn’t want help. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. But some days, the effort it took to unpack everything felt heavier than the things you were trying to fix. 

Your eyes flicked to the clock again. Five minutes to go. Five minutes to decide if you were actually going to stay or if the better choice—the easier choice—was to leave now and never come back. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to leave. Pretend you got the date wrong. Or the time. Whoever your therapist was could deal with an empty hour. Therapists were used to cancellations, weren’t they?

The door to the back office clicked open, and your attention snapped to it, heart lurching for reasons you couldn’t quite name. A couple emerged first, their expressions stormy. The man muttered something sharp under his breath, and the woman spun on her heel to hiss back a reply, her tone dripping with venom. They swept past the receptionist’s desk without a backward glance, leaving behind a tension that seemed to hang in the air like a cloud. 

So, not a glowing endorsement of whoever was running things here.

You shifted in your seat with half a mind to bolt out of there right behind them.

Oh. 

Oh no.

Someone stepped into the doorway. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Undeniably handsome. He leaned casually against the frame, scanning the room with dark, perceptive eyes. His inky black hair was swept back, not a strand out of place, and his sharp jawline looked like it had been carved out of marble. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but the deep grey button down and tailored black slacks might as well have been one, given how well they fit him. 

You swallowed hard. Was this a client? A consultant? He definitely didn’t look like a therapist. 

Then you met his eyes. 

He smiled, warm and easy, the kind of smile that felt like it was just for you. And then one brow arched, as though he were waiting for something. 

Had he… had he said something?

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Your voice came out higher than you wanted, your throat suddenly dry. 

“(Y/n)?” he asked, his tone gentle, but there was a flicker of amusement in his gaze now. 

Oh god. 

Your heart sank. Of course, he wasn’t a client. No, fate wasn’t that kind. Fate had a sense of humor, and this—this—was your therapist. 

Your face burned as you grabbed your purse and rose to your feet, realizing with dawning horror that he’d definitely caught you looking him up and down. Off to a fantastic, totally professional start.

He stepped aside, holding the door open for you with an easy, practiced motion. “How are you today?” he asked, his voice smooth and inviting, like the kind of person who could make small talk feel genuine. 

How am I? You hesitated, unsure how to answer. “I’m… here.”

His lips twitched, like he was fighting back a smile. “That’s a good start.”

You ducked your head and stepped through the door, realizing as you passed him that he smelled ridiculously good—something subtle and clean, like fresh rain and cedar. Great. Add that to the growing list of reasons this might be a disaster. 

“This way,” he said, motioning for you to follow as he turned down a hallway. 

The sound of your footsteps on the carpet echoed faintly in the quiet corridor, and after a few moments, he glanced over his shoulder. “It’s a bit of a walk to my office, so bear with me.”

“Yeah, no worries,” you said quickly, hoping it sounded normal enough.

As you trailed behind him, you tried to focus on anything other than the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. But, of course, your eyes had other plans. Why did he walk like that? There was a confidence in every step, his broad shoulders filling the hallway. And then there was the way his shirt clung to his back, stretching just enough to hint at the muscles beneath. It was distracting, and—damn—his pants didn’t help either. They fit too well. 

This is not going to work, you thought again, your gaze dropping to the floor before you embarrassed yourself further. 

When he finally stopped in front of a door at the far end of the hall, he opened it and stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter first.

You stepped inside cautiously, taking in your surroundings as he closed the door behind you. His office was warm and inviting, nothing like the sterile waiting room outside. The walls were painted a calming shade of soft gray, and there were a few framed prints on the walls, abstract enough to be interesting without stealing focus. A large bookshelf lined the far side of the room, filled with psychology texts and what looked like a few well-worn novels. A plush, navy sofa with a cozy throw draped over the arm sat in front of the bookshelf, accompanied by a matching armchair that looked just as comfortable. They were slightly worn in a way that made the space feel less clinical and more inviting, more like a place for comfort than formality. 

He gestured toward the sofa. “Please, take a seat. I just need to fill out a few things before we start.” He stood at his desk, one hand bracing himself on the mahogany, the other clicking away at the trackpad before he started typing. 

You nodded, making your way over to the couch and sinking into the cushions, feeling the plush fabric mold around you. The sound of his typing filled the room, a rhythmic clicking that seemed louder in the quiet space. You leaned back into the cushions, and set your purse beside you, gaze drifting to the bookshelf. 

The spines spoke of dense academic texts mixed with more approachable reads—novels with cracked bindings, their titles stamped in gold foil. Your eyes skimmed over the titles, lingering on a few. 

The Body Keeps the Score. Of course. The book having been mandatory reading in your Trauma and Recovery course, it seemed like a therapist’s staple. Next to it, Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl, its pages slightly yellowed with age. A copy of Quiet by Susan Cain wedged between heftier volumes on trauma, resilience, and attachment theory. 

The novels, however, were harder to pin down. There was a worn copy of The Alchemist, and right beside it was a beautifully bound collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. 

The Count of Monte Cristo. The spine was so cracked it was nearly illegible. What kind of therapist read Monte Cristo in his downtime?

The hot kind, apparently.

You suppressed a smile, wondering how often he lost himself in stories of betrayal and redemption.

Then there was The Night Circus, which made you pause. It felt like a curveball, like he’d peeled back some layer of himself and let a hint of whimsy slip through. Maybe he wasn’t as predictable as the clinical texts and older classics suggested. 

The soft creak of his chair drew your attention, and you turned to see him settling into the armchair across from you, clipboard in hand. How cliché. He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee, and gave you a small, reassuring smile. 

“Before we get into the formalities, let me introduce myself. I’m Dr. Rhysand Hale, but you can call me Dr. Hale, Dr. H, Rhysand, whichever you’re most comfortable with.”

You nodded, the casual offer catching you off guard. “Uh, Rhysand’s fine.”

His smile was warm but brief, just a flash of reassurance before he moved on. “Rhysand it is, then.”

He picked up a pen from the notepad in front of him, toying with it between those long, slender fingers. “Now, I want to go over a few things before we start. Everything you share here is confidential, except in situations where—”

“I know,” you interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve been through this before. Confidential unless there’s danger to myself or someone else, mandatory reporting, whatever else. I agree to all of it, it’s fine.”

His brows lifted, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he lowered the pen slightly. “Straight to the point. Got it.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled, heat rising to your cheeks. “I just… know how this goes.”

“That’s okay,” he said, voice soft but steady. “I appreciate your honesty.”

You nodded, trying to mask the way the words slid off you like water on glass. His voice had taken on that practiced softness. It was all so rehearsed—the tone, the pauses, the words that sounded more like something ripped from a manual than a genuine conversation. You didn’t blame him, really. It was part of the job. But that didn’t mean you had to like it.

It wasn’t the words themselves that grated on you but the way they sounded, so carefully crafted to put you at ease. 

It didn’t put you at ease. 

You hated this part. You weren’t here for a script, or for someone to tread so lightly around you it felt like you might shatter under the weight of their words. You just wanted to talk. Like real people.

Your arms tightened across your chest, and you resisted the urge to sigh. If he kept this up, you weren’t sure you could sit through a whole session without snapping. But snapping would mean starting over again. Explaining yourself. Apologizing. You weren’t sure you had it in you to do that—not today. 

“Does that make sense so far?” he asked, his voice still wrapped in that practiced softness. 

You blinked, realizing you hadn’t been paying attention. “Yeah,” you lied, shifting slightly on the couch. 

His lips quirked again, just barely. Not a smile, but close. It was… pretty. 

He nodded and glanced at whatever sheets he had on his clipboard. “Good. We’ll revisit some of it later, but for now, I want to focus on why you’re here. No pressure—whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

There it was again, that tone. And the same loaded question as always. What had brought you in? It wasn’t the lack of sleep, or sparse meals—those, you’d just been dealing with. And, sure, working at the lab with your course load wasn’t great, but neither one really was to begin with. Maybe it was your roommate telling you she felt so much better supplementing her therapy sessions with medication. Maybe you’d finally caved and decided it was worth a shot. 

You realized you’d been quiet. 

“Uh… A lot, I guess? I haven’t been feeling like myself,” you said finally, knowing it was vague but hoping it was enough to satisfy him.

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. 

It was not. 

“What does ‘not like yourself’ mean to you?”

You looked away, your eyes drifting back to the bookshelf, to the well-worn novels and the spines of dense psychology texts. “I don’t know. Just… tired. All the time,” you muttered.

He nodded again, his expression calm and neutral. “Tired can mean a lot of things. Physically? Emotionally?”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, crossing your arms tighter. “Both.”

The word came out more clipped than you intended, and for a moment, you braced for some kind of reaction. But he just leaned back slightly, his pen poised over the paper. “That sounds exhausting,” he said simply. 

This was the second time he’d caught you off guard—it sounded genuine. Not loaded with pity or false empathy. Just an acknowledgement. 

You shrugged, the irritation in your chest easing just a fraction. “Yeah. It is.”

The silence that followed felt heavier, but not suffocating yet. He didn’t rush to fill it, which somehow felt worse than the scripted reassurances. It gave you space to think, and thinking wasn’t exactly what you wanted to do right now. 

You shifted again, feeling the weight of the silence pressing on you now. The warmth of the room was almost too much, and you glanced around, finally letting your gaze settle on the lamp in the corner. It cast a dim, almost tired glow across the space, shadows stretching across the walls. 

You hated that lighting—why did it seem like it was the go-to for these spaces? It wasn’t even about the warmth of it; it was the dull, suffocating dimness that made your eyes strain and the room feel like it was holding its breath. Combine that with having to unpack everything wrong with your brain…

Your gaze flicked back to Rhysand. He was writing something down, his posture relaxed but focused. No judgment, no impatience. Just waiting. 

You sighed, your arms loosening just slightly as you sank further into the couch. “It’s like… everything feels heavier than it should. Getting out of bed, brushing my teeth, cooking. I do it, but it’s like I have to drag myself through it.”

He glanced up briefly from his notepad, his gaze steady and unintrusive. 

“It’s not just the big things, y’know? It’s the little stuff too. Answering a text, picking what to wear, deciding what to eat.” You hesitated, suddenly self-conscious about how it sounded out loud. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” His voice was firm but not harsh, and it startled you enough to meet his eyes. “When even the smallest tasks feel overwhelming, it’s not about the task itself. It’s about what’s behind it.”

You blinked, thrown again by how matter-of-fact he was, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Your gaze dropped to your hands. “I don’t know. I just… I feel like I’m running on empty all the time. Even when I sleep. Even when nothing’s wrong, it's like my brain is just—” You gestured vaguely, searching for the words. “Static.”

He nodded again, not interrupting. Letting you stumble your way through it without stepping in to finish your sentences. 

“And then there’s the sleep thing,” you added, the words spilling out now, faster than you intended. “I stay up way too late because it’s the only time I feel… I don’t know, quiet? But then I sleep in and feel like shit because half the day’s gone. And then I’m pissed at myself for wasting time, but I’m too tired to do anything about it.”

Your throat felt tight, your fingernails digging into your palms. “I know it’s all connected. I know it’s probably not even that hard of a fix. But it just…” You trailed off, your voice barely above a whisper now. “It just sucks.”

Rhysand’s pen stopped moving, but he didn’t look at you right away. He let the silence stretch out for a moment, long enough for you to wonder if you’d said too much too fast. When he finally met your eyes, his expression was unreadable—but there was something in his gaze that made your chest feel just a little less heavy.

“Thank you for sharing that,” he said softly. “It’s not easy to put into words, and I’m glad you did.”

You stared at him for a moment, weighing your options. You could keep playing along, nodding and pretending the carefully chosen words didn’t grate on you. Or you could… not. 

You exhaled sharply, sitting a little straighter. “Okay, look,” you started, your voice a touch hesitant but firm enough to hold his attention. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. I really do. But…” You paused, searching for the right way to say it without sounding like an asshole. “Can we skip the part where you pull out all the standard counseling techniques?”

His brows rose slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. 

“I mean, I get it. You’re building rapport, making me feel heard, all that. I’ve read the same textbooks. I’m a semester away from a psych degree, and I’m about to start a PhD program. So, I know what you’re supposed to do and say to make me feel comfortable.” You let your hands fall to your lap, your tone flat. “But, honestly? It just makes everything feel… fake.”

He tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Fake how?”

You hesitated, trying to put it into words. “Like… I can tell what’s from the script. I know it’s part of the job, and I’m not saying you’re doing it wrong or anything. It’s just… Not gonna work for me? I don’t know, I’d just rather talk to an actual person than feel like I’m answering a list of pre-written questions.”

For a moment, you worried you’d overstepped. But then, to your surprise, he smiled. Not the practiced, reassuring kind, but a small, genuine curve of his lips. “Fair enough,” he said, leaning back into his chair. 

His posture shifted slightly, less formal and more… natural. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped a fraction, shedding the careful softness he’d used before. “How about this: I’ll leave the ‘textbook therapist’ voice behind if you answer two questions for me.” You looked at him expectantly. “How many times have you tried counseling before this?”

You couldn’t help how your shoulders tensed at the question, and you knew he’d seen it as well. No point in lying. “Five,” you admitted after a beat. “Including the one I ghosted three months ago.”

“Five,” he echoed, tapping his pen lightly against his notepad. “And why do you think those didn’t work out?”

The way he asked wasn’t accusatory. There was no judgment, no insinuation that it was your fault. Just curiosity. 

You finally uncrossed your arms, tucking your hands beneath your thighs. “I don’t know,” you said at first, but the words felt too dismissive. He didn’t rush to fill the silence, and somehow that made it easier to keep talking. “I guess… the first one wasn’t a great fit. She was fine, but it felt like she was checking off boxes the whole time. The second one…” You paused, cringing inwardly. “We just didn’t get along. He kept trying to dig into my childhood, even when I told him it wasn’t relevant.” You ran through the rest, trying not to wince at how overly critical it made you seem.

Rhysand nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Sounds frustrating.”

“That’s one way to put it,” you muttered. 

“And yet, you’re here.”

You met his eyes. There was no smugness in his tone, no implied congratulations for showing up. Just quiet curiosity. 

“Yeah,” you said, lips twitching wryly. “I guess I’m not ready to give up on it yet.”

“Good,” he said simply, and the warmth in his tone surprised you. “Because here’s the thing—this only works if you’re honest with me. About what’s working, what’s not, and when I’m being an ass without realizing it.”

That drew a startled laugh from you, and his smile widened just a fraction. 

“I mean it,” he added, his gaze steady. “This is about you. Not the textbook. Not the manual. Just you. So, if you ever feel like I’m missing the mark, tell me. Deal?”

For a moment, you just looked at him, weighing his words. And then, slowly, you nodded. “Deal.”

“Good,” he said again, his tone lighter now. “Then let’s start from there. No scripts, no soft talk, no bullshit. What’s something you want to get out of this?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The cursor blinked at you, waiting. 

You stared at the half-written sentence on your screen, the words blurring together as your mind drifted. For the past hour, you’d been trying to finish this paper—Behavioral and Cognitive Influences on Decision-Making: A Modern Analysis. It wasn’t exactly light, but usually, you could bury yourself in the subject. 

Not tonight. 

No matter how hard you tried, your thoughts kept circling back to Rhysand. To the way he’d leaned forward slightly when you spoke, his pen poised but never quite moving until you were finished. To the quiet weight of his question: “What’s something you want to get out of this?”

At the time, you’d said the first thing that came to mind: “I just want to feel normal again.”

But now, in the solitude of your room, the words felt inadequate. What did normal even mean? You couldn’t remember the last time life felt anything close to it.

You sighed, pushing the laptop away and resting your head in your hands. His face flashed in your mind again, the way his voice had softened—not in that rehearsed way therapists did, but genuinely, like he wanted to understand. You weren’t delusional; you knew he was only doing his job, that he didn’t really care about your depression. Still, the way he’d spoken made it hard not to believe, just a little. 

The silence in your room felt too heavy, curling at the edges like a headache you couldn’t shake. Pushing back from your desk, you stood, stretching briefly before heading toward the kitchen. Maybe a glass of water—or something stronger—would clear your head. 

As you padded down the hall, you caught the faint sound of music drifting from behind a closed door. Gwyn. Of course; her eclectic playlist was a constant in the apartment, swinging from soft folk ballads to gritty guitar riffs without missing a beat. You paused for a moment, smiling despite yourself at the muffled chorus of some indie anthem you couldn’t quite place. 

Your roommate always seemed to radiate energy, even through the walls. She had this way of filling every space with her presence, even when she wasn’t trying. You weren’t sure how she managed it, but Gwyn’s personality was as vibrant as the bright tapestries and fairy lights strung up in her room. The contrast between her and your quieter, more subdued energy never failed to make you wonder how the two of you had managed to live together so seamlessly. 

The music faded as you moved into the kitchen, flipping on the light. You opened the fridge, scanning its contents without really seeing them. A half-empty bottle of wine caught your eye, and for a moment, you considered it. Fingers wrapping around the neck, you pulled it partway off the shelf before hesitating. With a sigh, you pushed it back and grabbed a glass instead, filling it with water from the fridge.

As you leaned against the counter, sipping slowly, you heard Gwyn’s door creak open, followed by the sound of her bare feet padding toward the kitchen. A few seconds later, she appeared, leaning against the doorframe with an amused smile. 

“Burning the midnight oil again?” she asked, noting the dark circles under your eyes. “What’s this one—‘The Psychology of People Who Don’t Do Their Dishes’?”

You shot her a dry look. “Ha-ha. Behavioral decision-making.”

She raised an eyebrow as she grabbed a mug from the cabinet, her gaze flicking to the glass of water in your hand. “You know, for someone studying decision-making, you take a suspiciously long time to decide what to drink.”

“It’s just water,” you muttered, taking another sip.

Gwyn tilted her head and a few reddish-copper strands of hair fell over her face, her expression pointed. “Uh-huh. Don’t think I didn’t hear the wine bottle clink from my room.”

“And yet, here we are. Me with water.” You glanced up, raising an eyebrow in mock defiance. 

She smirked as she leaned against the counter beside you, unfazed. “Do you always make drinking water look this dramatic?”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched in spite of yourself. Something about her made it difficult to hold onto irritation for long.

“So,” she said casually, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied you. “What’s the verdict? Is Dr. Broody worth the copay?”

You stiffened slightly, then turned to face her, trying to keep your voice neutral. “He’s not broody,” you muttered.

Gwyneth tilted her head, clearly not buying it. “You said he’s a ‘Rhysand.’ That just sounds like a guy who broods in a corner looking mysterious. Or like a failed perfume line. Let me guess—sharp jaw, dark hair, probably devastatingly handsome?”

Yes…

You groaned, setting your glass on the counter. “Oh my god, can we not?”

“What? I’m just painting a picture. And hey, if therapy doesn’t work out, at least you’ll have some eye candy to distract you.”  

“Gwyn,” you warned, though your lips twitched again despite your efforts. 

“Alright, alright,” she said, waving a hand. “Speaking of distractions, though—The Hawk this weekend. Cassian’s meeting me there. You should come.”

You shot her a look. “I’ll pass.”

Gwyn crossed her arms, her grin widening. “You’re no fun.” She glanced away for a beat, then added—far too casually, “He, uh… he asks about you, you know. He worries.” You raised an eyebrow. Subtle as a brick. 

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond to that. Cassian worrying about you always felt strange—too much, in a way. “He has better things to worry about.”

Gwyn shook her head, teal eyes softening just a little. “Maybe. But you’re not as good at hiding as you think,” she said with a small smirk. “Cassian’s not the only one who picks up on things.”

You felt a tightness tug at your chest, but this time, you didn’t try to hide it. Instead, you just let the silence hang for a moment, knowing she wasn’t going to push you further—at least, not tonight.

Eventually she sighed, breaking the tension. “Come on. It’s just a few drinks. We could use the company. I’ll make sure he doesn’t corner you.”

You stared into your water, tracing the edge of the glass with your finger. The idea of getting close to Cassian again felt like a fine line you didn’t want to cross right now—not because you didn’t want him, but because you couldn’t bring yourself to risk pulling him in when you couldn’t even figure out where you were. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough,” Gwyn said, grinning. “I’ll let you stew on it. You owe me a drink at least for being so patient with you.”

You snorted softly. “Fine, deal.” Even if you flaked last minute, the way you always did these days, you’d give her 10 bucks for a sweet, fruity drink. But maybe a night out was exactly what you needed. Glancing at the clock on the stove, you saw it was nearly 2:30 a.m. With a sigh,  you made your way back to your laptop. The paper wasn’t going to write itself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Rhys stood near the front counter, hands braced against the edge. His focus kept slipping—catching on the hum of the lights, the tick of the wall clock, the dull ache between his shoulders. 

From the back room, the tattoo machine wound down, its buzz thinning to silence. A moment later, the door opened. Azriel stepped out, already pulling off his gloves. He checked the tray on the counter, adjusted one bottle by a fraction of an inch, then glanced at the schedule clipped beside the register. 

“What time’s your next one?” Rhys asked, glancing at the clock. Just past seven-thirty.

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His mouth tightened, just slightly. 

Rhys lifted a brow. “That bad?”

“Eight-fifteen,” Az said finally. 

Rhys looked up at him. “You hate late appointments.”

“I hate late appointments that aren’t worth my while,” Az corrected, arms crossing. “He’s only in town for two days. Dropped a deposit big enough to make me flexible.”

Rhys snorted. “So you’re subsidizing the AC with one guy’s bicep.”

“His back, actually.”

“Ah.” Rhys nodded. “High square footage. Smart investment.”

“That’s the hope.”

The back door opened again, and the earlier client stepped out, arm freshly wrapped, expression loose and unfocused in that post-adrenaline way. Rhys shifted aside.

Az glanced once, quick and evaluative, then nodded. “Follow the care instructions. Text me if anything looks off.”

Payment processed. Receipt printed. The rhythm completed. 

Rhys crossed to the worn leather bench along the wall and sat, forearms resting on his knees. The lights overhead buzzed faintly. 

His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He reached for it, thumb unconsciously tapping the notification. 

(Y/n): you said to lyk if i ever thought abt doing him again

Rhys blinked.

His stomach went still, then dropped, then did something that felt dangerously close to lifting.

The shop had settled into that low, mechanical hum. Az stood at the desk, tapping through the tablet with methodical focus, checking totals, clearing notifications, whatever else it was he did. Rhys watched for a second too long. The message glowed from his screen, sudden and stark and impossible to interpret cleanly. 

This could mean anything. 

And that was the problem—everything with her could mean anything. 

He sat up straighter without meaning to, shifting on the bench like posture might help him regain control of his thoughts. His fingers hovered above the screen.

She was allowed to text him. He’d said as much. He’d given her his personal phone number and told her it was okay. But he hadn't actually expected this. 

Not now. Not after how well she’d been doing. 

The last few weeks had shifted—subtly at first, then all at once. She’d been showing up early. Talking more. Dodging less. Letting herself be seen without immediately retreating behind humor or irritation or the arms crossed over her chest. And last session—just a few days ago—she’d laughed. Once. Soft and unguarded, like it surprised her as much as it did him. 

She’d smiled at him as she left. Not politely, not performatively. Just… genuinely. 

He’d thought about her more than he should have this week. Thought about the way she curled her sleeves over her knuckles when she got uncomfortable. The way she bit back a laugh when she made a joke and he didn’t catch it fast enough. The way she didn’t always let him in, but when she did—

God, when she did…

He was fond of her. That was the problem. He liked her. Liked her too much. 

Even in session, when he was being careful. Especially then. 

Maybe that was why his chest felt tight now. Why his eyes snagged on the word him, again and again, as if the repetition might dull its edge.  

you said to lyk if i ever thought abt doing him again

The phrasing was a mess. Casual, not the way she usually typed. But there was something else threaded through it. Something raw enough to tug at him even as he told himself not to pull. 

This didn’t read like a step forward. This read like a step sideways, into territory they were both supposed to avoid. 

Don’t read into it.

Too late.

Rhys: That was a general offer.

Rhys: But I’m listening.

The message marked as Delivered. Then Read. And then—

(Y/n): thinking abt doing it again

(Y/n): and dropping him again

(Y/n): in that order

His throat went dry. 

He stared at the screen, at the casual mess of it. Flirtatious in the way people got when they were a little lonely and wanted to be heard without admitting it outright. 

It was a joke. It had to be. Or a test. 

But it didn’t feel like a joke. Not entirely. 

The tone was crooked. Familiar. Like something real was hiding just beneath it. And maybe that was what made it dangerous. Because he knew that tone—had watched her speak in it. He’d seen her mouth curve around sharp little smiles like the one he could practically see now. He knew what she was like when she was deflecting—and when she wasn’t.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he muttered under his breath, pulse thudding low and hard. He swallowed hard, forcing the heat in his chest back down where it belonged. 

And typed instead—

Rhys: Dangerous habit.

He hit send. 

Her reply came almost immediately.

(Y/n): mm but fun tho

(Y/n): very fun actually

A soft breath slipped out of him before he could stop it. He tipped his head back against the wall, eyes closing for half a second.

She was joking.

Or venting. 

Or… flirting? 

Or nothing, Rhys.

Rhys: Is that your professional opinion?

The message sent. He locked the phone immediately, like that might keep it from burning a hole through his pocket.

Azriel reappeared from the back, wiping his hands on a rag. Rhys hadn’t even noticed him leave.

“You remember that guy last week?” Az said. “The one who wanted a tree ‘but make it angry’?”

Rhys blinked, dragged back into the room. “The same one who wanted to play his music on a speaker and cried during setup?”

“Yeah,” Az snorted. “Left me a review this morning. Five stars. No text. Just the tree emoji. Three times.”

Rhys smiled despite himself. “High praise.” 

“I’m framing it.”

Buzz.

Az dropped onto the stool across from him and cracked open a can from the mini fridge. It hissed, then went quiet.

“You ever think about picking it up?” Azriel asked casually.

Rhys raised a brow. “Tattoo work?”

“Yeah. You’ve got the hands for it. The patience. The intimidation factor.”

Buzz. 

Rhys scoffed. “Yeah, I’ll get right on abandoning the very expensive degrees.”

Buzz. 

“Hey, you’d be surprised how many failed lawyers are in this business.”

Rhys shook his head, smiling faintly. Az always made it sound plausible.

Buzz.

From the back room, a soft alert chimed. Az groaned. “Shit. I gotta go prep.”

“You love a guy with a Pinterest board.”

Buzz. 

Az waved him off, disappearing through the swinging door.

Alone again, Rhys let out a slow breath and unlocked his phone. 

(Y/n): god no we both kno im not a pro 

(Y/n): if i was a pro i wouldnt be here right

(Y/n): lol

(Y/n): but if i WERE a pro

(Y/n): my profesh opinion is i need to be supervised

His jaw tightened. A quiet spark lit in the center of his chest, catching on the word supervised like a wick.

His brain immediately offered ten different replies, and just as quickly vetoed nine, settling for the only one that wouldn’t get his license revoked. Barely.

Rhys: Lucky for you, I’m very good at that.

And then immediately regretted it.

It wasn’t what he meant. Or—it was, but—

No time to revise. Her reply came fast.

(Y/n): whats the goin rate for supervision these days

(Y/n): asking for a friend

Rhys closed his eyes for a brief, deliberate second. 

She was tipsy. That much was obvious now—he could see it in the looseness of her spelling, the run-on thoughts, the lack of cushioning with irony. Alcohol rarely gave new ideas, mostly made the old ones harder to ignore.

Still. She knew what she was doing.

She had to.

He opened his eyes and stared at the screen again, jaw tightening. He should slow this down. Redirect. Say something neutral. Something safe. Something that gently nudged the conversation back onto solid ground. 

Instead—

Rhys: Depends on the type.

The pause that followed stretched longer. Maybe she was rereading it. Maybe she was deciding whether she’d imagined the implication. Maybe she was smiling at her reflection in that bar’s bathroom mirror.  Maybe she was turning his words over, looking for something underneath. 

He definitely was.

(Y/n): omg theres TYPES now??

(Y/n): system is rigged

A soft huff of laughter slipped out of him before he could stop it. He pressed his lips together, shaking his head once.

Get a grip.

Rhys: We’re outside the system now.

Rhys: This is a specialty service.

The words sat there, glowing. Too smooth. Too easy. 

Another breath. His pulse was louder now, insistent. He hadn’t been this aware of his own body all day—of the weight of himself in the room, of the space between intention and action.

(Y/n): lmk if u ever need a reference

(Y/n): i know a girl

Rhys: Do I?

He knew even as he sent it that it sounded like something else. Something he shouldn’t be offering. 

(Y/n): as a matter of fact u do mhm

He stared at the message longer than necessary, mind filling in gaps it had no business filling. The mirror. The bathroom. The sharp fluorescent light flattening everything except her. The way her mouth might tilt at the corner when she typed things like this—half daring, half amused with herself. Bare arms. The line of her neck when she tilted her head. Legs crossed at the ankle, uncrossed again. Weight tipped into one hip. The soft column of her throat, skin warm and exposed where her collar dipped— 

He shouldn’t be picturing this.

He knew better.

Rhys: Have you been drinking?

The answer came quickly, as expected.

(Y/n): just a bitttt

(Y/n): just like

(Y/n): soft in the edges in the bathroom of this smelly bar

(Y/n): which sounds worse typed out tbh

(Y/n): ignore that

(Y/n): im not like. DRUNK

(Y/n): im sober enough to know this will be super embarrassing tomorrow

(Y/n): not sober enough to particularly care rn

He read the messages twice. 

Smiled once. 

Then stopped himself from smiling again.

This was where he was supposed to intervene. Grounding. Slowing. A reminder about tomorrow. About consequences.

Instead—

Rhys: Not my usual prescription, but if it’s working…

He winced internally the second it sent, gaze wandering to the darkened front windows of the shop.

Not my usual prescription was a lie of omission at best. Not the one he measured carefully and handed out with language about coping and sustainability and long-term outcomes. That version stayed neat—contained to paper, to plans, to things that could be tracked and justified. 

But he knew the other version all too well. Knew how easy it was to reach for something that softened the edges, blurred the noise, made a night feel survivable instead of endless. Knew the relief it offered—and how quietly it asked for more the next time. He understood the difference between using something and leaning on it, and how thin that line could get when you were tired enough. Or lonely enough. 

Buzz. 

(Y/n): its not not working

(Y/n): things are weird out there

(Y/n): weird with him

(Y/n): i feel like a balloon

Rhys: Untethered?

(Y/n): no like. full of air

(Y/n): like if someone poked me i’d fly away or burst

(Y/n): one of those

(Y/n): ugh ignore me this is why no one invites their therapist to drinks

The reply I don’t mind breaking precedent flashed fully formed—and vanished just as fast.  It startled him enough that he had to physically unclench his jaw.

Rhys: I’ll try not to take that personally.

(Y/n): u should

(Y/n): i’d absolutely invite u

(Y/n): but i’d only talk after 2.5 drinks so u cant judge me

Rhys: I’d still judge you.

Rhys: Quietly.

Her next reply took longer. He knew better than that. Judging wasn’t supposed to exist anywhere near his voice with her, not even as a joke. The word lingered anyway, heavier than he’d intended, and he found himself waiting, half-braced, because the pause that followed felt earned. He sat with it, jaw tight, reminding himself—too late—where the line was supposed to be. 

(Y/n): rude

Fuck. 

(Y/n): but fair ig

Relief flickered through him. He hated that it did. Some part of him had been craving consequence even in something this small—had wanted the discomfort, the correction, as if it would balance the scale. As if being checked might absolve him of the fact that he’d enjoyed the misstep at all. 

(Y/n): u ever get that thing

(Y/n): where ur not lonely but ur still like.

(Y/n): aware of being alone

He stared at the message—felt the weight of it. 

Rhys: Sometimes.

(Y/n): it’s annoying

(Y/n): anyway sorry lol idk why im texting u

Rhys leaned forward, elbows bracing against his thighs, spine straightening as something in him clicked into place. The teasing edge dulled, if only for the moment. The room came back into focus. Whatever else this conversation had been skirting, this was the part that mattered.

Rhys: You needed to.

Rhys: It’s allowed.

The pause that followed was longer still. 

(Y/n): do u ever miss things that weren’t even good for u

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He didn’t let himself think too long about that one. 

Rhys: More often than I’d like to admit.

(Y/n): mm

(Y/n): ok yeah maybe u do get it

(Y/n): stupid annoying therapist powers

Rhys: Occupational hazard.

A stretch of silence. He pictured her perched on the bathroom counter, lipstick worn thin, hair slipping loose, the strand that never stayed in place—the one he always had to remind himself not to tuck away in session. 

(Y/n): ugh

(Y/n): ok

(Y/n): i should go back

(Y/n): gwyn’s gonna think i fell in

Something in him resisted the idea of her leaving—an irrational, immediate reluctance he didn’t bother justifying—not because there was anything left to say, but because the conversation hadn’t finished settling in his chest yet. He felt it anyway, brief and bright, before forcing it back into its proper place, annoyed with himself for noticing it at all. 

Rhys: She’d probably come rescue you.

I’ll come rescue you, his mind supplied. 

(Y/n): yeah

(Y/n): she’s got a scary sixth sense for people avoiding social gatherings in bathrooms (always me)

The laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it—quiet, low, unguarded. Not the polite sound he used in session, not the careful exhale of amusement he curated. This one caught in his chest and surprised him with its ease. 

He leaned back against the bench, eyes closing for half a second as it faded. He could picture it too clearly: her laughing into the mirror, mouth tilted crooked with self-awareness. The idea that he might be the reason for a laugh like that someday sat warm and unsettling all at once. 

That was the problem. 

He was enjoying it. 

He cut the thought off sharply. 

(Y/n): ok really going now

(Y/n): thanks

(Y/n): for being nice i mean

(Y/n): and not like. therapist-y

Rhys: You’re welcome.

That should have been it. Really. 

Instead—

Rhys: You’re easier to talk to like this.

Rhys: You say what you mean.

Regret crept in immediately.

(Y/n): drunk?

Rhys: I thought you weren’t drunk.

(Y/n): ur right im not

(Y/n): like this how

Her question sat there, deceptively simple. Like this could mean a lot of things, and that was the problem. Not drunk, but close enough to it. Close enough that the careful editing was gone. The second-guessing. The habit of cushioning every truth with a joke or a shrug. 

Like this meant she wasn’t watching herself. 

Like this meant she was saying things as they occurred to her, not as she thought they were supposed to sound. 

His thumbs hovered over the screen, typed, then stopped. 

Less filtered.

No, too close to drunk. And she’d already decided she wasn’t. 

He deleted it and tried again. 

When you stop pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing, flashed into the draft box next. 

Worse. 

That sounded like an invitation. Like encouragement. Like he was enjoying this in a way he had no right to. All of those things were true, and that was reason enough not to send it. 

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, and stripped the thought down to the barest, safest version of the truth. 

Rhys: Informally

And he swore—he swore—he wasn’t hoping she’d text again after that.

But when she did, something in his chest tipped toward pleased—unearned, unprofessional, and impossible to pretend otherwise. 

(Y/n): lol ok informally it is

(Y/n): u should charge extra for informally

(Y/n): i’d pay it

(Y/n): god forbid we ever talk formally

(Y/n): id prob kms

(Y/n): not literally

(Y/n): poor choice of words

(Y/n): dont baker act me pls

The messages stacked one after another, casual and unfiltered and unmistakably her. Rhys read them once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, like pace might change the meaning.

Informally it is. 

That one lodged first. Not because it surprised him, but because it didn’t. Soft acceptance, easy agreement. No hesitation, no backpedaling. Just a smooth yes, as if she’d already decided this was where she wanted their relationship to live. 

You should charge extra for informally. 

That one landed lower. Warmer. It wasn’t the joke itself that did it, it was the framing. The way she turned it into a choice she was making, not a favor she was asking for. Like this version of him was something she wanted deliberately. Like she knew there was a difference, and she was opting in. 

He told himself not to read into that. 

I’d pay it. 

That was where he stalled. 

He read it once, then again, slower. There was nothing explicit there, nothing he could point to and say that’s the line. No heat, no demand, just certainty. Casual. Confident. Said like a given, like she wasn’t testing the water so much as assuming he was already wading in it with her. 

And that, more than anything, was what unsettled him. 

She wasn’t asking permission. She was assuming proximity, speaking as if the closeness had always existed, underneath, and was trusting him to meet her there or not. As if the risk wasn’t in saying it, but in pretending she hadn’t meant it. 

His chest tightened at that. Not with panic but with recognition, because part of him had already answered. 

God forbid we ever talk formally.

He huffed a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head once. How close she was to the truth, to the fact that whatever this was, it hadn’t felt normal in a while. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was the joke. 

Then the spiral. It was messy, self-aware, half-apologetic in the way people got when they were thinking out loud. That was what finally did him in. Not the dark humor—he’d heard worse. It was the trust threaded through it. The initial assumption that he’d understand the joke, that he wouldn’t panic, that he’d let it land as it was meant to. She wasn’t asking for reassurance. She wasn’t even asking for absolution. 

She was just… talking to him. 

Rhys leaned back against the wall, phone loose in his hand now, thumb resting idly at the edge of the screen. The shop felt quieter all of a sudden, like the world had politely stepped back and given him a second he hadn’t asked for. His thoughts drifted—not forward, not to consequences or rules or tomorrow—but sideways, circling the way her messages felt rather than what they meant.

He liked the way she sounded like this. Liked the rhythm of her, the way her humor tangled with honesty when she wasn’t smoothing it down. Liked that she trusted him enough to be ridiculous and sharp and a little reckless all at once.

He was enjoying it.

Not in a reckless, out-of-control way. In a measured way. A contained way. The kind of enjoyment that came with awareness—I know exactly what I’m doing—and still didn’t stop.

His thumb lifted. Hovered.

A reply took shape almost immediately, something light, something that would meet her where she was without tipping too far. He typed it out, glanced at it, adjusted a word. Read it again. The corners of his mouth threatened something dangerous.

“Bro.”

Rhys froze. 

Azriel stood a few feet away now, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to be annoying. His gaze flicked from Rhys’s face to the phone still in his hand and back again, slow and assessing.

“Who’s got you smiling like that,” Az said, mouth twitching like he’d just been handed leverage. 

“Mind your business.”

He deleted the text.

I’ll spare us both the paperwork. Let’s call it informal supervision and leave it at that. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Your bed was a battlefield of printouts, chargers, granola wrappers, and a second empty coffee cup. There was a highlighter somewhere in your hair. Probably two.

When your cursor froze mid-sentence, you reached for your phone—just for a break, you told yourself. Just to check something mindless. 

Instagram opened before you could stop yourself. There was Cassian at the gym—posted twenty minutes ago—sweat-dark shirt clinging to him, arms flexed. He looked flushed, alive, the kind of picture that made it abundantly clear he knew exactly what he was doing posting it. Then, his page, and you scrolled. Back, back, until the old ones started showing up. The ones you shouldn’t still know by heart. 

Your thumb hovered over a picture from two winters ago, one he’d teased you for taking: his coffee steaming beside an open engine manual, grease smudged along his wrist. The light had been soft that morning, slanting through the garage windows, catching on the rough edges of his grin. You’d taken it because it felt domestic. Because it had, at some point, felt like something that could last. 

Dangerous. 

Careful not to mistap, you exhaled through your nose and backed out, thumb shaking a little. 

Your messages were still open from the last time you almost sent something. 

heyy, howve you been? sat half-typed in the box. You deleted the words again before you could even think about sending them. Locked the phone. Tossed it to the side. 

You were starting a new paragraph on data validity when you heard it: the front door swinging open, Gwyn’s unmistakable voice bleeding down the hall. Not just speaking—crying. Loud, furious crying. You froze, staring at the screen like it could offer an explanation.

Then the shuffle of shoes. A hiccuping breath. The crack of a drawer slamming in the kitchen.

You threw off the covers, untangling yourself from the paper nest, and stepped into the hallway.

Gwyn stood by the counter, backpack still on, mascara smeared to hell, a plastic froyo bag dangling from her wrist. Red nose. Blotchy cheeks. You hadn’t seen her like this in a long time.

“Exam,” she gasped when she saw you. “I bombed it. Like, oh my god, I wrote an entire short-answer section about the wrong book. I’m gonna fail. This is it. I’ve peaked. This is how I go out.”

You blinked. “Wait… what? I thought—”

“It’s my last semester,” she groaned, tugging her ponytail loose. “My last one! I’ve been a model citizen. I learned Excel, (y/n)! And I still walked in and fumbled like—like a freshman who thought Plato was a kind of cheese—”

You stepped closer. “Gwyn—”

“So then I went to the froyo place,” she barreled on, sniffling mid-sentence, “and I was weeping—full-on sobs in front of the toppings bar. The poor kid was like, ‘Ma’am, you can’t cry on the cookie dough crumbles,’ and I went, ‘PLEASE, I’M A GOOD PERSON!’ And he gave me seven free samples. Seven!”

You let out a soft laugh, pressing a hand to your mouth. “Oh no.”

“I just stood there with, like, a tiny spoon in each hand, cry-eating birthday cake swirl, and telling him about how I wasted four years of my life on an English degree all because of one stupid midterm. I think he thought I was homeless.”

Then—your stomach dropped. Not a flutter. Not a pang. A plummeting, lungs-emptying kind of fall. Your blood ran cold.

“Wait,” you said, interrupting her hysterics. “Midterm?”

Gwyn looked at you, confused. “Yeah. Contemporary Lit. The one with the professor who hates women but loves Hemingway? I totally bombed it. There was this entire section on post-war narrative fragmentation and I literally blacked out. Like—how am I supposed to deconstruct Catch-22 when I can barely remember what day it is? Anyway, I tried to make up for it by quoting that one article about metafiction you sent me—”

You didn’t hear the rest.

You spun, barreling down the hall, shoulder-checking your door until it slammed back against the wall. Scrambling over the bed, shoving papers aside, tossing aside a forgotten lunch, the highlighters, the pens—where was your phone?

Where the fuck was your phone?

You yanked back a hoodie, then a blanket. You finally found it by throwing your pillow across the room and hearing the dull clunk of plastic on hardwood.

The lock screen lit up: 7:43 p.m.

Your heart stopped.

Gwyn hovered in the doorway. “What’s—why are you—”

“I missed it,” you said, voice quiet, tight.

Her brows furrowed. “Missed what?”

Your phone glared back at you. “My midterm.”

“What?” Her voice rose. “Wait… today’s? The Psychometrics-in-whatever one?”

“I missed it,” you repeated, nodding, eyes wide. You couldn’t look away from the time. “It was at four. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I lost track. I thought it was tomorrow. I thought today was yesterday, I—”

“Shit,” Gwyn whispered, stepping closer.

“I missed it,” you said again, like saying it would reverse it somehow. Like it could make sense if you kept repeating it.

“I’m gonna fail,” you said, softer now, mouth dry. 

Gwyn crouched at the edge of your bed, hand gentle on your arm like you were a skittish animal she wasn’t sure how to soothe. You’d sunk into a squat beside it without realizing.  

“Hey. It’s okay,” she said softly. “You didn’t know.”

You shook your head too fast. “No, it’s—I’m fine. Really. Just… pissed at myself. But… I’ll deal.” Your stomach sank, heavy and knotted, head oddly light. 

Gwyn searched your face. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Totally. It’s not the end of the world. Just one midterm.” You tried to laugh, but it came out thin and frayed. “Honestly, I bet you didn’t mess yours up as bad as you think. You’re probably being dramatic.”

She snorted weakly. “You think?”

“I know,” you said. “You’ll get an A-minus and call it a tragedy. Let me know what you get when the scores come out, okay?”

She hesitated. “Okay. But—”

“I have to finish this thing for the lab,” you cut in, already back at your laptop. “It’s due tomorrow, and the schedule’s been a nightmare lately. Just need to get through tonight.”

Gwyn didn’t move. “Are you sure you’re—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you interrupted, not meeting her eyes. “I’m good.”

She shifted her weight. “Okay… well, I’ll be in my room, eating my emotional-support froyo and watching Little Women for the 400th time, if you decide you hate science and want to cry about Jo March instead.”

You smiled weakly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She lingered for a moment longer before slipping out. The door clicked shut, leaving the silence heavy enough to press on your ribs. 

You sat there, motionless, your laptop screen burning like a spotlight on your failure. When you pulled it down from the bed, it landed a little harder in your lap than you meant for it to. Your fingers hovered over the trackpad, then moved fast—too fast—clicking through folders, opening files, searching for the syllabus like something inside it might’ve changed in the last few hours. Some clause you’d missed, some mercy hidden between the lines that would make this all okay. 

Your eyes scanned the page too quickly to absorb it, then doubled back again. Course policies. Grading breakdown. Missed exams. No makeups allowed unless an emergency is documented within 24 hours of the scheduled start time. 

And there it was. Bolded. Unforgiving. 

Midterm Exam: 40% of final grade.

Your chest cinched tight.

Forty percent. 

Forty. Percent. 

You blinked, reread, blinked again—like the text might glitch and rewrite itself. Like the syllabus might suddenly add a footnote: Unless you actually studied and you’re really, really sorry.

The neat little block on your calendar—Midterm – 4pm—sat squarely in today’s box, mocking you.

You’d missed it.

Not because of an emergency. Not because you were sick. Not because you’d gotten the date wrong.

You’d missed it because you’d been writing a recruitment script for your advisor’s new study. Because you’d been answering three different co-authors at once. Because you’d spent six straight hours polishing a literature review that wasn’t even due until next week.

The sob punched out of you before you could stop it. Your laptop slid off your lap, clattering to the floor. Another sound tore loose—raw, strangled. You pressed a hand over your mouth to smother it, but it only made it worse. 

If you failed the class, you wouldn’t graduate.

If you didn’t graduate, your PhD admission would be revoked.

If your PhD admission was revoked, your housing would fall through.

Your stipend. Your letter of recommendation. 

The only thing you’d been good at. 

Your whole future.

Gone.

Because of one fucking midterm.

Because of you. 

Your mind spun faster than you could grab hold of a thought. Everything piled up—looping, collapsing, reforming—like glass tipping off a shelf. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t that serious. That you’d figure it out. That there was something you could do. 

But nothing stuck.

You were sobbing now—shaking, uneven sobs that made your ribs ache. Each breath came too fast, too shallow, your lungs skipping steps like they couldn’t remember how. You pressed your palm to your chest as if you could calm your heart from the outside, but it only hammered harder. The room tilted. Your vision tunneled. You tried to take a deep breath and couldn’t—your throat locked, your body refusing air. 

“I’m so stupid,” you choked out to the empty room. “I’m so fucking stupid, what did I—how did I—”

Another sob ripped through you. You curled in on yourself, small and shaking, like your body was trying to shrink beneath the weight of it. 

You had never done this—never screwed up like this before. Not even when things were really bad. 

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You opened your inbox, stared at your professor’s name, then closed it again immediately.

What were you even supposed to say?

Hi, sorry, I forgot how time works. Can I make up the thing that’s worth basically half my grade?

You didn’t even remember grabbing your phone. Didn’t remember unlocking it.

Only the sound of his voice—setady, familiar—when he answered.  

“Hello?”

And yours, hoarse and broken, barely above a whisper:

“…Hi.”

A pause. Not long. Just enough for the shame to catch up.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered. Your voice felt thick, clumsy. You tried to clear it, failed. “I didn’t mean to call. I just— I didn’t know who else—”

“You’re okay,” he said quietly, steading you with the sound alone. “You don’t need to apologize. What happened?”

You tried to answer, but all that came out was air. Your breathing quickened. You pressed a trembling hand to your forehead, forcing the words out. 

“I missed it,” you whispered.

A beat. “Missed what?”

“The midterm. I—I missed it, Rhysand. It was at four. I don’t know how—I thought today was yesterday—” Your voice cracked. “I fucked it up, I ruined everything—”

“Hey.” His tone shifted—not harsh, but firm enough to pull you back to him. “Take a breath.”

You shook your head even though he couldn’t see you. “I can’t breathe, I can’t—I keep checking the syllabus and there’s nothing I can do and—fuck—”

“It’s alright,” Rhysand said. Not because it was, but because you needed something solid to stand on. “You’re alright. Listen to me.”

You nodded, tears spilling freely now. The phone trembled in your hand.

“I’m close by,” he said after a moment. “Can you meet me at the office?”

You blinked through the blur, his voice the only clear thing left.

“I—yeah. Okay.”

“Good. Don’t worry about anything else right now. Just get here. Safely.”

“…Okay.”

Rhysand stayed on the line a few seconds longer, like he didn’t trust the silence to hold without him. 

When the call ended, the quiet beeps lingered in your ear. You stayed there for a moment, phone still pressed to your cheek. Then you wiped your face hard, grabbed your keys, and left. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You were pretty sure you were the only ones in the building. 

It was that particular kind of quiet—thick and echo-less, like the air itself had gone still. Every creak of the floorboard, every shift of your weight, felt intrusive. You and Rhysand had arrived at the same time, neither saying much past a diluted exchange of hey and thanks for coming. He’d unlocked the office door himself, a small silver key pulled from the pocket of his coat, and held it open without a word as you slipped past. 

Compared to normal operating hours, the lights were low. Only the small lamp beside the couch burned—its amber halo pooling across the rug, softening the sharp edges of the room. The overhead fluorescents stayed off, leaving only the faint spill of hallway glow brushing the floorboards. The air smelled faintly of paper and citrus cleaner, that sterile calm you’d always hated. 

Now you sat curled in the corner of the couch, hands shoved under your thighs, shoulders tight enough to ache. Your hoodie was pulled tight around you like you’d tried to make yourself half your normal size, the sleeves damp at the cuffs. You’d cried through most of the drive over, breath hitching every few blocks, and the tremor hadn’t left. It sat in your ribs not, light but constant, like an aftershock. 

Rhysand had disappeared into the back for a moment—probably setting down his bag, maybe grabbing tissues, maybe just giving you space. When the door opened again, you looked up—and blinked. 

It wasn’t until now, your hysterics finally thinning to raw quiet, that you really saw him. No pressed slacks tonight. No collared shirt, sleeves neatly rolled. Instead, he was dressed down—gray joggers, a black t-shirt that clung in all the places it shouldn’t be allowed to, and a fitted hoodie half-zipped over it. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run a hand through it more than once tonight. 

It felt strange. Intimate, somehow. Not just because he looked like he belonged more on someone’s couch than behind his clipboard—but because he hadn’t been home. What was it he’d said on the phone? “I’m close by?” Where had he come from? 

Or worse—he had been on his way home from somewhere, and turned around just for you.

You looked down at your hands again. They didn’t feel like your own.

Rhysand said nothing as he walked in. 

He didn’t take the usual seat across from you—didn’t put a full room between your spiral and his calm. Instead, he stepped around the low table and settled into the armchair beside the couch. Close enough to share the pool of lamplight. Close enough that if you shifted your foot an inch or two to the left, it might graze his.

Your eyes flicked toward him, then back down.

He hadn’t asked if it was okay to sit there. And that made your throat tighten. Because it felt… human. Not strategic. Not part of a therapeutic tactic or measured intervention. Just present. Just here.

And you hadn’t realized how badly you needed here to be closer.

He glanced once at the lamp, then back to you. “Sorry about the lighting,” he said after a beat. “You know I’d open the blinds but…”

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the dark window. 

“Moon’s slacking,” you mumbled. 

A faint smile flickered across his face. “I’ll write her a complaint.”

Then… he didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t reach for his notepad.

Just waited. 

And gods, it was quiet.

You hated how much it made you want to cry again, how much you already felt your eyes watering.

“I’m not going to ask you to talk yet,” he said after a while, voice low. “I just want you to breathe.”

You nodded once. Managed a shaky inhale.

The quiet didn’t rush you, it just settled—warm, steady, and unhurried. But somehow that made it worse. Made it feel like the room was wide enough for everything you’d been trying not to feel.

Your throat tightened. You swallowed. 

And then, because the silence stretched long enough for your thoughts to start crawling back into your throat, you whispered, “I’m tired.”

His eyes lifted to yours. Still patient. Still steady.

“Like…” You exhaled harshly. “I’m so tired. All the time. I can’t keep up. I try so hard, and I just—” You gestured vaguely, helplessly. “I missed a midterm because I forgot what day it was. I’ve been organizing lab participants and coding data and editing two research papers and prepping for final presentations and just—” Your voice cracked. “And when you asked last week if school was going okay I lied.”

You let your head fall back against the couch cushion. Stared at the ceiling like it might give you an answer.

“I said it was fine. I smiled and said it was fine because I’ve been saying it’s fine for months. Because if I don’t say it’s fine, then I have to admit to myself that I’m fucked. I’m so fucked.”

Rhysand didn’t speak. 

So you went on, voice quieter now, more frayed. “I thought I could handle everything. That if I just planned well enough, worked hard enough, I could do it. And I was doing it! But then it all started slipping, and I kept pretending it wasn’t.”

Another breath. Another spiral unspooling.

“And now I’ve missed a midterm that’s worth forty percent of my grade. There are no makeups, no do-overs. If I fail this class, I don’t graduate. And if I don’t graduate, I lose my spot in the program, which means I lose my funding, which means I lose my housing. And all of this—everything I’ve done for the last four years—it ends. Just like that.”

You looked at him finally. Your face burned. Your whole body ached with it.

“I don’t even think I want to be in the program anymore,” you said, voice trembling. “But I’ve built my entire life around this plan and now I don’t know who I am without it. And I’m so fucking tired.”

Rhysand’s gaze didn’t waver.

And for a second—just a second—something in his expression shifted. Not pity. Not surprise. But something… quieter. A flicker of understanding, of recognition, like he’d known this feeling too. Once. Or maybe still did.

He leaned forward a little, forearms on his knees. “You’re not fucked,” he said. Not softly. Not gently. Just plainly. “You’re burnt out. What you’re doing… it’s too much pressure for one person. Anyone would crack under it.”

You looked down at your hands. At the faint crescent-shaped indentations your fingernails had left in your palms, the bite mark on your thumbnail. Your voice was thin. “I didn’t think. I just… needed someone.”

He nodded once. “Yeah. And you called. That’s what I gave you my number for. That’s why I told you an apology wasn’t necessary.”

You blinked, surprised by the sharpness in his tone. Closer to how your friends talked when they were trying to talk you off a ledge. Closer to how you talked to them.

“And, yeah,” he went on, “you missed a midterm. That sucks. And it’s unfair, and you’re terrified, and it feels like your entire future is riding on a single mistake you didn’t even mean to make. That’s real. That’s valid.”

You swallowed hard, chest stinging. 

“I just…” You shook your head. “What if it’s already ruined? What if I blew my only shot?”

Rhysand sighed, raking a hand through his hair, and when he lifted his head again there was something raw in his expression—honest frustration on your behalf, not at you. The sleeves of his hoodie had inched up his forearms, the soft fabric of his t-shirt pulled tight across his chest as he leaned forward, and there was something about how unguarded he looked like this. 

“Then you cry. You scream. You punch a pillow a bunch of times. And then you keep going.”

It was so matter-of-fact, the way he’d said it, like falling apart at the seams wasn’t some personal failure. It made your chest ache. You weren’t used to anyone meeting your panic with this kind of certainty. And the way he watched you, waiting for the words to actually reach you, left you feeling even more exposed. 

“But it’s also not the end,” he continued, looking straight at you. “I know it feels like it is—I’ve been there—but it’s not. You’re still here, you’re still fighting. We’re gonna figure it out. And I’m not just saying that as some blanket reassurance—I mean it. I’m not leaving you knee-deep in shit.”

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure you could. But something in your face must’ve shifted, because Rhysand  huffed a laugh. It wasn’t exactly light.

“I missed my dissertation defense.”

You hadn’t realized you’d been staring at your shoes until the words yanked your head back up. 

“It was the day after my mom’s car accident,” he said, rubbing a thumb over his knee. “I was supposed to fly back the next morning, but I never made it to the airport. Sat in the ICU instead. And after, when I finally came back, I didn’t tell anyone what happened. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought if I didn’t say it out loud, it would mean it wasn’t real. Maybe I thought I’d get sympathy I didn’t deserve… Don’t know, but I missed the defense. No call, no email, no excuse.”

Something twinged in your chest. “What happened?”

“They pulled my funding, I lost my lab position. Had to reapply the next semester and start the process again. A year behind everyone I came in with. But eventually…” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Eventually, I got here.”

You stared at him. This man who always seemed so controlled. So composed. You never would’ve guessed.

“I don’t usually tell patients about my own failures,” he said, as though he already knew exactly where your thoughts had gone. “It’s not the job. But this didn’t feel like a job thing.” His gaze didn’t waver, only sank deeper into yours, like he was offering something he shouldn’t. “It felt like a human thing.”

Your vision blurred. 

“This isn’t going to break you,” he said quietly. “I swear it won’t. And even if it knocks you sideways, we’ll still figure it out. One next step at a time. We regroup. We look at your options. We adapt. But you don’t give up on yourself because of one bad day. That’s not the rule. That’s not the measure of who you are, (y/n).”

You blinked fast. Your heart still hurt. Your lungs still felt tight. But under all of that, something in you started to loosen.

Not because it was okay, but because he got it. Because for once, someone wasn’t pretending it was fine just to make you feel better.

And you really, truly believed him.

You shifted your weight on the couch, rubbing your palms together absently.

“I feel like an idiot,” you said finally. “For forgetting. For letting everything pile up like this. I know better, and I still—”

“Knowing better doesn’t always mean you can do better,” Rhysand said, and there was no judgment in it. Just a small shrug. “Brains aren’t spreadsheets.”

That startled a soft huff out of you—something close to a laugh. “Mine kind of is. Or tries to be.”

“Okay. Sometimes spreadsheets crash,” he offered, the corner of his mouth tilting just slightly.

You shook your head, still blinking, but your lip twitched. “That’s… a terrible metaphor.”

“It’s a fantastic metaphor,” he said, the words warm with a quiet confidence that made you roll your eyes on instinct. His gaze flicked over you—your still-pink cheeks, the way you kept rubbing your fingertip along the seam of your jeans—and his mouth lifted just a fraction higher, like he could see right through your attempt at deadpan. “You’re just too close to it.”

You snorted softly, shaking your head, blinking away the last remnants of tears. A reluctant smile tugged at your lip anyway, betraying you before you could stop it. “Do they get worse than that?”

“Only when I’m tired,” he said lightly, leaning back a little, arms folding in a way that pulled the fabric of his hoodie across his chest. “Or trying to make a point.”

You glanced over at him then, really looked, and something eased in your shoulders you hadn’t realized was clenched. “You must be exhausted, then.”

His smile deepened just a little, the smallest crinkle appearing at the corner of his eyes. And god, it did something warm and stupid to you that he smiled like that at you of all people.

Soft. Amused. Just a little bit undone. 

A breath escaped you that almost felt like relief. You sat with it all for a moment longer—the mess, the warmth, the exhaustion curling at the edges of your bones.

Then: “Hey,” you said, quiet but clear. “How does… this work? Like, billing-wise. My insurance only covers once a week, and I—”

“Don’t worry about that tonight,” he said, almost before you finished. “We’ll figure it out when you come back in on Wednesday.”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Okay.”

Another pause. Softer, now. You didn’t move to leave. He didn’t move to hurry you.

“Thanks,” you said, barely above a whisper.

His voice was low, immediate. “Anytime.”

And you believed that too.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Busy looked better than avoidant. Busy sounded less pathetic than I don’t know how to stop myself from wanting to hear your voice because you’re not supposed to be mine in any capacity. Busy made sense. It was respectable. 

By the end of the first week, your days had collapsed into a narrow sequence of motions. Alarm. Shower if absolutely necessary. Coffee that went cold before you finished it. Campus. Lab. Class. Lab again. Home after dark, when the apartment windows reflected your own face back at you instead of the city outside. November had settled in properly, all grey skies and wet pavement and wind sharp enough to sting your eyes. Every morning, you wrapped yourself in the same coat and told yourself you were functioning because you kept showing up where you were supposed to. 

Mostly. 

You answered emails with careful punctuation. You sent out survey links. You scheduled participants and updated spreadsheets and forwarded attachments with phrases like no worries and sounds good and attached here. You nodded when someone spoke to you. You smiled when you needed to. You remembered enough names, enough deadlines, enough passwords. 

Nothing was on fire. 

Which, obviously, made it worse because you knew what this was now. 

The first time it had happened, you’d mistaken it for laziness. Then burnout. Then a personality flaw with academic consequences. You’d told yourself you were tired, overwhelmed, antisocial, dramatic, difficult. You had been able to hide inside not knowing. There had been a sort of comfort in that, even if it had hurt. 

There was no comfort at all now. 

Withdrawal. Avoidance. Emotional shutdown. Isolating as a control strategy. Reducing points of contact to minimize perceived demand. Protecting yourself by disappearing before anyone had the chance to ask for more than you could give. 

God, clinical language made everything sound so depressing. 

Then again… 

Wasn’t it? 

Standing in the kitchen at midnight, staring at a bowl of cereal you’d poured over twenty minutes ago and never eaten. Gwyn’s voice muffled through your bedroom door, asking if you wanted to watch something, and your mouth forming around the word maybe even though you both knew it meant no. Lucien sliding a pack of M&Ms toward you in the lab and you pretending not to notice because accepting kindness felt like signing a contract you couldn’t read. Rhysand’s name glowing on your phone and your stomach twisting so violently you turned the screen face down. 

He didn’t text constantly—that would’ve been easier to resent. He gave you space, which was considerate. And unbearable. 

The first message came a couple of days after everything changed. 

Rhysand: Hi. The office let me know they haven’t been able to reach you about getting established with another clinician, either here or at our sister practice. I know the transition isn’t ideal, but I’d really encourage you not to let the progress you’ve made fall into the gap. 

You stared at it in bed, your room still dark, the phone too bright in your hand. You remembered his voice before you’d shown him those pictures—why did you have to show him pictures? Maybe if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be so…

Busy. 

Today had been worse, though you weren’t entirely sure why. Maybe because you’d slept through three alarms. Maybe because you’d stood in the frozen aisle for nearly ten minutes trying to remember what you’d come there for. Maybe because every tiny thing seemed to require the kind of effort usually reserved for moving furniture. Whatever the reason, by the time you got to the lab, you already felt… thin. 

Your participant arrived ten minutes early. Freshman, probably. Nervous. Backpack still slung over both shoulders, student ID hanging crooked around his neck, cheeks pink from the cold. He kept shifting his weight in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if coming in early was breaking some sort of rule. 

“Sorry,” he said for the second time. “I know I’m early.”

You smiled automatically. “No worries at all. Come on back.”

You led him through the lab toward the simulation room, chatting just enough to fill the silence. 

“Have you done a SONA study before?”

He shook his head. “No. First one.”

“Easy place to start, then.”

He laughed nervously.

You handed him the clipboard outside the room while he filled in the consent form, your eyes skimming over the roster more out of habit than necessity. SONA ID matched. Time slot matched. The simulation room was exactly how you’d left it after the last participant. Headset charging. Chair centered beneath the monitor. Everything where it was supposed to be. 

You picked up the laminated instruction sheet, though you hardly looked at it anymore. Halfway through your spiel, your throat tightened unexpectedly. 

“If at any point during the simulation you begin to experience discomfort—sorry.” A small smile. “Dry throat.”

He smiled back politely. “Trust me, I get it. The cold’s got everyone screwed up.”

You cleared your throat and started again. 

“If at any point during the simulation you begin to experience discomfort, please notify me immediately. You’re free to withdraw from the study at any time without penalty. During the navigation task—”

Nothing. 

The sentence disappeared.

You frowned at the page. It was right there, black letters on white paper. You’d read this script so many times you could’ve recited it in your sleep. 

“... Sorry,” you murmured again. 

The participant shifted awkwardly in the driving chair. “No rush.”

You nodded and took another breath, but the words still wouldn’t come. Instead, something behind your ribs lurched sharply, like your body had mistaken breathing for something dangerous. 

Not now. 

You stared at the page until the lines blurred together. 

Your vision burned. 

No. Absolutely not. Not here. 

You lowered the clipboard before the first tear could fall onto it. 

“I’m so sorry,” you heard yourself say, voice strangely thin. “Would you mind giving me just… one minute? I think I left something in the prep room.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Thank you.” You smiled, and it felt convincing enough. 

You stepped into the hallway, let the simulation room door swing shut behind you. You made it exactly three doors before realizing you weren’t headed to the prep room at all. 

The restroom. 

The fluorescent lights overhead smeared into long white streaks as you pushed through the door, locked yourself into the first stall, and finally let yourself breathe. 

Only, it wasn’t breathing. 

Your chest hitched once.

Then again. 

You clamped a hand over your mouth before the sound had a chance to escape. 

“Oh, come on,” you whispered into your palm. It wasn’t even about anything. There was no revelation or memory or terrible realization crashing over you. 

You pressed your forehead against the cool metal partition and tried to count your breaths the way you’d been taught. 

One. Two. Three.

Your lungs refused to cooperate, and tears slipped free anyway, hot and humiliating. 

“I’m okay,” you whispered automatically, squeezing your eyes shut harder. 

A quiet knock sounded against the restroom door. 

“(Y/n?)”

Lucien. 

When had he gotten in? 

You swallowed hard before answering. “Yeah?”

Silence stretched for a beat, long enough that you pictured him standing on the other side of the main door, hand still resting against it, trying to decide how much to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful. 

“I’ve got your participant.”

You closed your eyes. 

“... Okay.”

“... Take your time.”

His footsteps faded, and his small kindness of not asking what happened nearly started the whole thing over again. 

You’d made it home somehow, not entirely sure when. Shoes still on and backpack where you’d dropped it beside the bedroom door, you’d decided to lie down “for a minute.”

Hours later you were still on the floor. 

Outside, rain tapped lazily against the window, too soft to matter. Somewhere in the apartment, a cabinet door closed. Gwyn had gotten home around twenty minutes ago, followed by the muffled hum of the microwave. 

You should get up. 

You knew that in the same detached way you knew you should answer more emails or do your laundry or eat something beside the handful of chips you’d scavenged from the lab break room before leaving. Instead, you watched the shadows in your room inch across the floor until the grey afternoon dissolved into evening. 

Your phone buzzed somewhere inside your backpack. Once, then again a few minutes later. You ignored both. 

By the third vibration, curiosity outweighed whatever strange inertia had glued you to the ground. You rolled onto your back with a quiet groan, reached blindly toward your bag, and fished the phone from the front pocket. 

The screen lit your face. 

Gwyn: home?

Gwyn: i’m about to watch legally blondeeee :) 

Lucien: Take tomorrow off if you need it, I’ll cover your participants

Your chest tightened. You couldn’t answer him—or Gwyn for that matter. Your thumb hovered uselessly over both conversations before drifting lower, past Cassian, past your advisor. 

The conversation sat exactly where you’d left it two weeks ago. No new messages or missed calls. Just the last thing he’d said before giving you the space you’d been pretending you wanted. 

Rhysand: Hi. The office let me know they haven’t been able to reach you about getting established with another clinician, either here or at our sister practice. I know the transition isn’t ideal, but I’d really encourage you not to let the progress you’ve made fall into the gap. 

You’d read it at least twenty times. Maybe fifty. Either way, it was enough that you could almost hear the cadence of his voice behind every word, smoothing out the clinical edges the way he always had. 

You’d convinced yourself there had to be a version of this that sounded reasonable. Easy to explain. But maybe there wasn’t a clean way to summarize two weeks of disappearing. 

And maybe that was okay. 

You tapped the empty text box. 

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