“I get that,” I say quickly. “I won’t put you in that position again.”
“I believe you,” she replies.
That shouldn’t feel like a gift but it does.
She leans back slightly, professional mask firmly in place. “We can still work together. If, and only if, you’re willing to actually show up.”
I nod. “I am.”
And I mean it.
She holds my gaze for another moment, like she’s weighing something internal, then nods once. “Okay. Then let’s get to work.”
As she begins asking measured, steady questions again, I feel the regret settle into something else.
Resolve.
Because whatever happened Friday night doesn’t erase the fact that when I walked into this room, she didn’t turn me away.
And that makes me want to be better, whether I deserve it or not.
The session winds down quietly.
Not awkward. Not tense. Just solid. The kind of solid that leaves me feeling wrung out but steadier, like something finally shifted into place instead of cracking open.
Amelia sets her tablet aside. “That’s good for today.”
I nod, standing a little slower than usual, the chair scraping softly against the floor. My chest feels lighter than it has in days and heavier too, because awareness is a bitch.
Awareness of her.
Of Friday.
Of the line I crossed and the one she just redrew in ink.
I don’t want to walk out without saying something. Doing something. The apology sitting in my chest feels unfinished.
“Amelia,” I say, stopping near the door.
She looks up, already guarded. Professional.
“I owe you,” I say. “For Friday. For putting you in that position.”
“You apologized,” she replies calmly. “And I accepted it.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’d like to do more than that.”
Her brows knit slightly. “Like what?”
My pulse kicks up. I know exactly what I’m about to say, and I know it’s crossing the line she just drew. I say it anyway.
“Let me take you to dinner,” I say. “One night. As an apology.”
Silence.
Her expression shifts. Not angry. Not flattered. Careful.
“Wilder,” she says slowly, “we just discussed this. That’s crossing the line.”
