She looked at me for a long moment. I had the feeling she could see right through my bullshit.
"Okay," she said. "We can start there. Tell me about your family."
The session lasted an hour. I didn't lie on the couch. She asked questions—simple, direct, hard to deflect—and I answered as little as I could. But she was good. She didn't push when I dodged, but she remembered every dodge and circled back later from a different angle. By the end, she'd extracted more than I'd intended without ever making me feel cornered.
"That's our time," she said, glancing at the clock. "Would you like to schedule another appointment?"
The smart answer was no. I'd proven therapy was exactly what I'd expected—talking without solutions.
"Same time next week," I heard myself say. "If you're available."
Something flickered in her eyes. Surprise, maybe.
"I'll have my receptionist send confirmation." She rose, and I followed. "And Mr. Zelenov? Get some sleep. However you can."
"Professional advice?"
"Common sense."
She held the door open, her face unreadable. I walked past her, close enough to catch her scent—something clean and faintly floral—and felt a pull in my chest that had nothing to do with therapy.
I rode the elevator down and stepped into the February cold. It wasn't until I was halfway home that I realized I was looking forward to next week. And it wasn't until I was lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling at 4:06 AM, that I admitted why.
It wasn't the therapy. It was her.
This is going to be a disaster.
Chapter 2 - Keira
The door clicked shut behind him, and I sat in the silence he'd left behind.
I should have been making notes. That's what I did after every session—transcribed my observations while they were fresh, noted patterns to explore, questions to revisit. Professional. Methodical. The way I did everything.
Instead, I sat in my chair and stared at the one he'd just vacated, trying to figure out why my hands weren't quite steady.
Zelenov.The name was wrong. I'd known it the moment he said it—something in the way it sat in his mouth, like a coat that didn't quite fit. Men like him didn't use their real names with strangers. I didn't blame him. I didn't use mine either.
I finally reached for my notebook and wrote the date at the top of a fresh page. Then I stared at the blank space beneath it, pen hovering, and tried to organize my thoughts into something clinical.
Patient presents with chronic insomnia. Likely duration: months to years. Contributing factors: work stress (stated), family dynamics (deflected), possible underlying anxiety or depression (unconfirmed). Patient is guarded, uses humor and charm as defense mechanisms. High-functioning. Successful at masking symptoms.
All true. All useless.
I tapped the pen against the page and admitted what I didn't want to write down: he'd gotten under my skin. I couldn't pinpoint why. I'd treated dozens of men like him—powerful, wealthy, armored in confidence that cracked if you knew where to press. They came to me because they couldn'tsleep or couldn't stop drinking or couldn't figure out why they had everything and felt nothing. I listened, I asked questions, I helped them peel back the layers they'd built. It was my job. I was good at it.
But I'd never wanted to keep peeling the way I wanted to keep peeling him.
It was the eyes, I decided. That smile of his was a weapon—he knew exactly what it did, exactly how to deploy it—but his eyes didn't match. They were tired. Watchful. The eyes of a man who hadn't stopped scanning for threats in so long he'd forgotten how.
I recognized that look. I saw it in my own mirror every morning.
Stop it.
I closed the notebook and stood, moving to the window. The city was shifting into evening, lights beginning to flicker on in the buildings across the street. I pressed my palm against the cold glass and made myself breathe.
He was a patient. That was all. Whatever I'd felt in that room—that pull, that curiosity, that absurd flutter when he leaned forward and actually answered a question honestly—it was transference. Or countertransference. Some clinical term that meantthis is normal, this happens, you're a professional and you'll handle it.
I'd see him next week. I'd maintain appropriate boundaries. I'd help him with his insomnia and never think about the way his voice dropped when he stopped performing, the way his whole body had shifted when he admitted he didn't remember the last time he felt rested.
