His jaw tightens and then twitches.
He's still human.
He still wants me.
I ask, "So you're pretending nothing happened?"
He corrects, "I'm acknowledging that something happened, and that it can't happen again."
I state a fact. "You kissed me."
"Yes."
"You invited me upstairs."
"Yes."
"You didn't stop me until you decided to."
His eyes darken for half a second. "This is exactly what I mean."
A spark flares in me, vindictive and electric. "What? Telling the truth?"
"Using truth as provocation," he says evenly.
I smile. "You always did say I was perceptive."
His gaze sharpens. He warns, "Blue."
The distance and finality hurt. My smile fades.
I want to push harder and see if he'll crack. I'm not sure if this control is real or just another lie adults tell themselves when they want something they're not supposed to have.
But the quieter, rawer side of me is exhausted. I've spent three days replaying his voice telling me to go home, then imagining what would've happened if I hadn't. I lost count of the hours I spent obsessively wondering whether he thinks about me when the office is empty, and the lights go dim.
He demands, "Make a choice, Blue."
I don't want to lose him, not like that. So I exhale slowly. "Okay."
He stills. "Okay?"
I shrug. "We'll do a real session if that's what you want."
He watches me closely, like he expects me to take it back. When I don't, his shoulders ease a fraction. He can't hide the relief in his voice. "Thank you."
He does love me, or he would want me to say no so he can transfer me to someone else.
That thought keeps me going.
He glances at his notes, then back to me. "Let's start with what the last three days have been like for you."
I hesitate. Old instinct tells me to deflect, joke, and redirect him back tous.
He narrows his eyes.
I sit straighter, then admit, "They've been...loud... In my head."
"Because of what happened?"
