But it's just Arden and me.
The study smells like ink and old wood and Ragon's stubborn need to control every surface he claims.
Arden gestures loosely. "You can sit wherever you're most comfortable."
The chair closest to the desk looks like a trap.
The couch looks too soft—too much like I'm supposed to relax.
There's a hard-backed chair near the window, angled slightly away from everything.
I choose that one.
Arden sits opposite me, far enough that I don't feel crowded. He crosses one ankle over the other, pen poised.
He doesn't start with sympathy.
He starts with something worse.
Neutrality.
"How are you sleeping?"
I blink. "Fine."
Arden's brow lifts. "Fine like you're sleeping well? Or fine like you're surviving it?"
I hold his gaze. "In the chair."
He nods once, like he expected that answer.
"And the bed?"
I look past him. "Not."
Arden doesn't push immediately. He writes something down. The scratch of his pen is oddly grounding.
"How is your appetite?"
"I eat."
His gaze lifts. "What does that mean?"
I exhale through my nose, almost amused by how hard he is to dodge. "It means I eat when I remember."
"Any nausea?"
"No."
"Any heats, flares, spikes?"
I swallow. "No."
Arden makes another note, then sets his pen down. He leans forward slightly.
"I'm going to do a few basic assessments. Nothing invasive. You can say no at any point. If I ask something too personal, you tell me and I'll reframe it."
I nod once.
