She doesn’t push. Just lets it sit.
“Do you feel angry at him?” she asks instead.
The question lands harder than the rest.
“Yes,” I say instantly. “And that makes me feel like a shit son.”
Her voice stays even. “Two things can be true at the same time.”
I huff a laugh. “You really believe that.”
“I do.”
I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion sinking deep into my bones. My head throbs. My chest aches. Every emotion feels too loud.
“I think I’m done,” I say abruptly, pushing to my feet. “I can’t do any more of this today.”
She stands too, nodding. “Okay.”
No argument. No disappointment.
That somehow makes it worse.
“I’ll see Susan later,” I mutter, already heading for the door. I just need air. Distance. Something solid.
My fingers wrap around the doorknob.
“Wilder.”
I pause but don’t turn around.
“You don’t have to come back today,” she says softly. “Or tomorrow. But when this hits you later, because it will, remember that grief doesn’t make you weak. It means you loved someone deeply. And that matters.”
My hand tightens on the metal.
Fuck.
I turn around before I can overthink it.
She’s standing there, calm and steady, eyes warm but not pitying. Just real.
The next part happens without permission from my brain.
I cross the room in two strides and pull her into me.
She gasps softly, then relaxes, her arms coming up around my back like she expected it. Like she knew this was coming. I bury my face against her shoulder, breathing her in.
Clean, grounding, human.
“Thank you,” I murmur, rough and low. “For not treating me like I’m made of glass.”
Her hand presses lightly between my shoulders. “You’re not.”
I pull back before I do something I can’t take back. Our eyes meet for half a second too long.
Then I step away.
I open the door.
