“That’s not what I said.” I brace my palm to the edge of the desk.
Orion sits forward, linking his gloved hands together. “But once you get inside my head, combing around with your little shrink comb, your assessment will state I’m high-risk.”
“You continue to ride a motorcycle despite the serious, life-altering accident you suffered,” I say. “That is a dangerous risk.”
“Statistics state otherwise.”
“Maybe, but I think it’s something else.”
The tension in the air gathers around us, the space between strained with the heavy pause. The demand for me to expound is delivered with the smoldering look he sends me.
“Despite the altercation between you and Dr. Prescott, my main concern isn’t that you could be a danger to others.” I select my words carefully, treading the rocky waters between us. “But that you may be a danger to yourself.”
A gust of wind rattles the windowpane. My belly flutters with the disruption, but I don’t flinch, watching Orion intently for the slightest tell.
He gives nothing away, his unyielding gaze fixed on mine.
I clear my hair from my vision. “Do you ever feel the impulse to jump?” I ask him. “That sudden, intrusive urge when you’re somewhere high, like your observatory? It’s referred to as the call of the void.”
He tilts his head, the movement deliberate. “That’s normal for most people.”
“Yes. But do you ever act on it?” I press.
Something flares behind his eyes. Heated, challenging. “I don’t have suicidal ruminations,” he states, the corner of his mouth lifting into a wry, humorless smile.
“The sudden urge to jump rarely is,” I say, sensing his resistance. I need to back off this topic. “People with harm OCD experience intense, violent thoughts. Unwanted flashes of doing something terrible. Hurting someone. Hurting themselves. The more horrific the thought, the more paralyzing. It’s never acted on, but the fear alone makes you feel a loss of control.”
His jaw tightens, tendons flexing along his throat. “That’s also common,” he concedes. “Straddling the line between life and death—literal, metaphorical—reminds us that we have free will. It grants us a certain power in choosing to take the leap and jump, rather than falling. Knowing we can answer the call—” he pauses, a ghost of a smile curling his mouth “—but choosing not to.”
Held captive by the intensity of his stare, I measure my breathing. “Then explain it to me, Orion. Why take such risks?”
“It’s simple,” he says. “I need the danger, the rush. When I’m on my bike and the heart races, the mind quiets. There’s no space for obsessive thoughts. To even think.”
My pulse quickens in response to his words. “The endorphin rush offers a distraction,” I reason, nodding slowly. “How often do you use this tactic?”
“Every chance I get.”
“You’re addicted to the rush.”
“I’m addicted to you.”
I grip the folder tighter to my chest. “These impulsive statements intended to deflect won’t help here.”
“Not deflecting.” He pushes back into the cushion of the sofa. “You’re beautiful.”
“You’ve said this to me already.”
“And I’ll say it every time it crosses my mind. You’re so goddamn beautiful, I can’t think straight. I’m obsessed, and fuck…” His voice lowers to a coarse grate. “Ever since the courtyard, my head’s been a mess, Dr. Holbrook.”
I swallow hard. “So this is your retaliation against me, for how uncomfortable I made you feel.” I search his gaze for the truth.
“Not at all,” he says, yet there’s a taut thread woven beneath his amused tone.
“Okay, then.” I nod once. “You can’t say things like that to me while in session.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You have to try.”
