My fork pauses. "Talk."
"Yes."
I set the plate aside, suddenly full. "I'm sorry about last night. I was—stupid. Overreacting. I won't do it again."
He doesn't respond to the apology. Instead, he picks up the plate, carries it to the dresser, then comes back and sits on the edge of the bed, but not close enough to touch me. He plants himself across from me, like we're in session.
The shift hits me like a slap. I snarl, "Intimate to clinical in one heartbeat. So, Dr. Mercer."
"You can be mad at me, but we're resuming therapy and going to return to consistency. I've already blocked times in my schedule."
The ground tilts. "You're serious."
"Deadly."
A short, sharp, ugly laugh comes out of me. "So last night, I bled all over you, and now, I'm back to being patient number whatever? That's it?"
"You're not a number." His voice stays level. "You're Blue. And you're hurting yourself. Again. I can't pretend that didn't happen. I can't fuck you and call it fixed."
My throat closes. "I don't need fixing."
"You need help." He leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes locked on mine. "And I can't be both. Not anymore. Not when you're using sex to avoid the hard parts. Not when you're cutting yourself instead of talking to me."
Each sentence is a precise, painful needle. I want to scream, kiss him, and disappear. But I hug my knees tighter, hurling, "You're punishing me."
He shakes his head. "No. I'm protecting you. And me. Because if I keep letting you deflect with your body, we'll both drown in it."
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back. "So what? No sex? No touching? Just boring therapy sessions?"
He doesn't flinch from the question. "For now. Until you're stable and we rebuild trust. And I mean real trust, Blue. Not the kind you try to buy with orgasms."
The rejection slices deeper than the glass ever did, making me exposed, small, and powerless. And underneath the hurt, there's something else nagging me. Maybe it's relief that he's drawing a line and not letting me run the show with my chaos.
I swallow hard. "You're really doing this."
"Yes." He clenches his jaw.
I stare at him, assessing the way he holds himself like he's prepared for me to fight, or cry, or bolt.
I hate it.
But I also need it.
"Okay," I whisper, the word tasting like surrender.
He exhales, and only then do I realize he had been holding his breath. "That's a smart choice, Bluebird."
The praise lands softly and unexpectedly. My chest aches with it.
He tips my chin up with two fingers. "We start tomorrow, 10 a.m. You come to my office just as we did in our previous appointments, and we talk. No deflections or running deals. Understand?"
Tears spill down my cheeks.
He brushes them away with his thumb. "You should eat the rest of your breakfast."
My body trembles. "So you don't love me anymore?"
He scoots closer. "I didn't say that."
