No one moves right away.
"Ready?" my mother asks gently.
I nod and reach for the door, jumping out, and holding myself back from rushing forward. And it takes forever to get inside Red's building.
The air morphs thicker with every step, like I'm moving through something viscous and invisible. The familiar smell of polished wood and faint antiseptic hits me as soon as we cross the threshold of his office, and my stomach tightens in response.
My father stiffens immediately.
It's subtle, but I catch it. His shoulders draw back, and his spine straightens so sharply, you could place armor on him. His eyes scan the room, guarded and uneasy, as if something here has already offended him and he just hasn't named it yet.
The receptionist smiles politely. "You must be Blue and Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov. Dr. Mercer is ready for you."
My mother thanks her, all warmth and courtesy, and ushers us forward.
My heart almost bursts out of my chest when I step past the door and see Red.
He stands near his chair, jacket buttoned, posture impeccable. Every line of him is composed, deliberate, controlled to the point of severity. His expression stays neutral, his gaze professional as it moves from my parents to me and back again.
Nothing in his face suggests he knows what my red lingerie looks like, or hints at the way his breath sounds when he loses control. There's nothing to betray the messages still burning in my phone. If I didn't know better, I might believe this version of him.
"Good evening," he says calmly. "Thank you all for coming."
My father nods once, curt. "Doctor."
My mother smiles too brightly. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."
"Of course," Red replies. "Please, have a seat."
We move into the room, and the dynamic fractures. My parents sit side by side on the couch, my mother angling her body towardme as if she can shield me just by proximity. My father remains rigid, knees spread, hands clasped, as if bracing for impact.
I take the chair across from them, directly in Red's viewpoint, so every time I cross my legs, he'll have to hold himself back from staring.
He sits last, settling into his own seat with precise economy of movement. He crosses one ankle over the other, folds his hands loosely in his lap, and becomes the calm center around which everything else rotates.
My insides quiver so much, electrified by Dr. Mercer's presence, that I jump up.
"Blue? Is everything okay?" he asks.
I step in front of him, lean over, and reach for the hourglass. I flip it and set it down where I can see it.
"Yep." I sit back down, watching the sand drift while every second stretches thin, humming with unspoken meaning.
My mother glances between us, already trying to bridge gaps that don't have names. "We're just here to support Blue. Whatever she needs."
My father's jaw tightens, his eyes flicking briefly toward Red and then away again. It's suspicion, raw and undefined. He doesn't trust the room, or the process, or the man holding it together. But that's my father in general.
Red inclines his head. "That's good to hear. Family support can be very grounding in moments like this."
His gaze shifts to me then, clinical and cool. No warmth. No recognition. If there's tension there, it exists only because I'm carrying it. He asks, "How are you doing today, Blue?"
I smile. "Better."
My mother exhales softly, like that's the answer she's been waiting for. "She seemed…energized today," she adds, "Focused."
Focused is one word for it.
My father snorts quietly, then stills when my mother shoots him a look.
