Sam looked like someone in his early fifties, fit but not showy, short gray hair, calm blue eyes. The man exuded an assertive calm that appealed to his lost, inner Little. Not because the therapist demanded it from him, but because silence fell naturally and comforting around Dr. Sam. Dressed in nice slacks and dress shoes, combined with a comfy, dark sweater he was just as much of a contradiction as the room.
“You can sit anywhere you like. Couch, chair, floor, or even the beanbag if it calls to you.”
Darian let out a half-laugh and made for the couch. “I think I’ll try the grown-up option first.”
Sam smiled and cocked his head. “Whatever works.”
Perching on the edge of the couch, Darian held his fingers threaded tightly in his lap.
Sam didn’t sit behind the desk. He took the armchair across from him and rested one ankle over his knee. The move made his slacks leg ride higher and reveal… colorful Happy Socks.
Before Darian could control it, Danny let out a snort.
Dr. Sam followed his gaze and pulled up his slacks even higher to reveal more of the sock, and he grinned. “Do you like them?”
“I do.” Danny nodded. “I wasn’t expecting them.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Sam stroked his chin. “Maybe not. I tend to dress… work appropriate I guess, but I like to add some personal touches to my outfit as well.” He rested his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward. “You’ve had a few days to settle in.” He dipped his head. “Anything you want to start with?”
Danny hesitated. Yesterday, Dr. Sam had explained how this worked. The therapist could guide the session, but it was on the patient to fill the space.
He swallowed. “I’m not... good at this. Talking, I mean.”
“Most people aren’t at first. It’s like moving to a new city. You’re navigating and think you’ve got a sense of the streets, and then you end up in a dead-end alley wondering how the hell you got there.”
Darian’s lips twitched, like his mouth had forgotten how to form a smile. “Yeah. That’s about right.”
Sam gave him a moment before asking, “Do you want me to call you Danny, or Darian?”
He blinked. “I’ve been using Darian for a long time. But it feels... heavy. Like armor. And I think I’m ready to try being Danny again. At least here.”
Sam nodded. “Welcome back, Danny.”
Inhaling sharply, an unexpected warmth bloomed in Danny’s chest. He’d thought hearing the name might sting. Instead, it fit. Like a hoodie long lost to the back of the closet. The material soft and worn in but still his.
“You can alter the name if it doesn’t fit later,” Sam added. “There’s no rule that you have to keep anything that doesn’t serve you.”
Danny nodded again and chewed on his bottom lip. “Thanks.”
Sam didn’t answer right away. And the silence stretched.
Danny stared at the carpet between his Doc Martens, letting his hands fall loose against his thighs. What was he supposed to say? Where was he even supposed to begin?
He hadn’t truly relaxed since the day Wilbert got the diagnosis. Everything shifted in that instant. One moment, Wilbert had been his bigger-than-life, unshakable, and steady Daddy. The next, he was a man with an expiration date. A man who needed caretaking. And Danny… stopped being Little. Stopped being enough. He became vigilant and practical. He became Darian.
He could still hear the IV machine beeping. Still smell antiseptic and saltines. He’d stopped calling him Daddy somewhere along the way. Maybe because it hurt too much. Maybe because Wilbert stopped answering to it. Or maybe because when you’re the one fetching medication and calling nurses at three a.m., the word just gets stuck in your throat.
He’d started waking at night, reaching for slippers before he was even fully conscious. Sometimes Wilbert had needed him. Sometimes it had been nothing but the creak of the house settling or a stray siren from the street.
And now, almost a year and a half later, he still woke up almost every night. The sound that jolted him was never real, but the adrenaline was. His mind spun like a washing machine on tilt. There was no sense or order to his thoughts, just a mess of guilt and grief and phantom voices calling from another room.
And always, the memories of those final months and days haunted him. He’d had to watch Wilbert’s muscles shrink, his voice weaken, and his beautiful smile turn into a hollow mask of pain. His Daddy had turned into a husk in a wheelchair, barely skin stretched over brittle bones.
Even now, long after the funeral, Danny would lie awake after those midnight jolts, chest tight, throat dry, staring into the darkness while the hours slipped away. Every time he closed his eyes, something surged up. Some nights, he gave up and turned on the light. Others, he just lay there, trapped in a silent storm of thoughts.
So when Sam asked what he wanted to start with, Danny didn’t have an answer.
Because where the hell do you start when the grief didn’t come in one wave but in a thousand sharp little cuts that never quite stopped bleeding?
