“Amelia,” I say, clearing my throat. “About Friday?—”
She lifts a hand. Not harsh. Just firm. “We’re not talking about that right now.”
That hurts more than if she’d snapped at me.
I step fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind me, and the sound feels final. “I didn’t mean to put you in that position.”
“I know,” she says.
“You shouldn’t have had to deal with that,” I add, the words rough. “I crossed a line.”
She studies me for a long second, like she’s deciding how much of me she can handle today.
“Yes,” she says simply. “You did.”
No anger.
No dramatics.
Just truth.
My jaw tightens. “I’m sorry.”
She nods once, accepting it without comment, then gestures to the chair across from her. “Sit.”
I do.
The silence stretches, thick with everything we’re not saying. She taps her tablet, professional again, controlled, and I hate that I’m the reason she has to be.
“How have you been sleeping?” she asks.
I huff a quiet laugh. “You already know the answer to that.”
“Humor me.”
“Like shit,” I admit. “Couple hours a night. If that.”
She nods, making a note. “Drinking?”
“Not since Friday.”
Her eyes flick up briefly, assessing. “And how are you feeling about Friday?”
There it is.
I swallow hard. “Ashamed,” I say honestly. “Angry at myself. And—” I hesitate. “Worried I screwed this up.”
“This?” she asks.
I meet her gaze. “You. The work. Whatever this is supposed to be.”
Something soft flickers across her face, but is gone almost as fast as it appears.
“Wilder,” she says quietly, “I need to be very clear.”
I brace myself.
“What happened Friday doesn’t define you,” she continues. “But it does mean we need boundaries. Clear ones.”
