"Oh." I pause. "What kind?"
"I'll explain later."
I don't push.
Instead, I pull the shirt over my head and slip it on over my own without thinking twice. The fabric settles against my skin, warm from his hands, loose and comfortable.
I don't care what he thinks of that.
If he has a reaction, he doesn't show it. He just notes something on his pad, eyes flicking briefly over the way the shirt hangs on me.
"Come sit," he says, gesturing to the chair beside his.
I do.
I take the seat next to him, leaving space like I've been trained to—but not as much as before. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his body through the air between us.
I breathe it in again, slower this time.
Calming. Steady.
There's a masculine edge to it that makes something stir low and quiet inside me, not urgent or needy, just aware. I realize, distantly, that if my omega instincts weren't suppressed, this is the kind of scent they would have leaned toward.
Not for claiming.
For comfort.
Arden scribbles something on his notepad, angling it away so I can't read it.
Minutes pass.
Neither of us speaks.
The silence stretches, but it doesn't feel heavy. My shoulders drop. My breathing evens out. My eyelids start to feel heavy.
I don't realize I'm drifting until—
"How are you feeling?" Arden asks suddenly.
I startle, blinking as I pull myself back. My heart jumps, then settles again.
I think about it.
Actually think.
"Good. I feel comfortable. Safe."
The words surprise me with how true they feel.
Arden nods once, satisfied. "That's good."
He closes his notepad and packs his things away with unhurried movements.
"I'll see you at our next session."
"Okay," I reply softly.
He leaves me there, wrapped in the shirt, the echo of safety lingering long after the door closes.
