I hovered, because I didn’t feel comfortableanywhere, and it took a moment for me to drop into the chair, hands clasped between my knees.
“Just so you know,” I blurted before she sat down, “I don’t need counseling about deployment. Or being a dad. Or about Gabbi’s mom dying.” The words crashed out in a single breath. “I’m fine. All of that—I’m fine.”
Elena didn’t flinch. “Thank you for telling me what you don’t want to talk about.” She folded her hands in her lap, steady and unbothered. “How about we start with something simple, then? Tell me about your favorite book—any one that comes to mind.”
My head jerked up before I could stop it. “How did you know I like books?” I snapped—too defensive. Like she’d pried something out of me I hadn’t meant to give.
Elena stayed calm. “You mentioned reading during breakfast yesterday. You were talking to Jazz about Gabbi liking the soundof you reading aloud.” She tipped her head, warm but not pitying. “It seemed like a good place to start.”
I opened my mouth to argue again—because apparently that was my default now—but the words jammed in my throat. Christ. Why was I coming in so hot? She hadn’t accused me of anything, but I was acting as if she’d cornered me in an interrogation room.
I dragged a hand over my face. “Sorry. I’m not—I don’t usually… snap like that.”
Elena’s smile was small and patient. “People often get defensive when they’re scared. It’s human. You don’t need to apologize for being human, Morgan.”
Great. So now I was defensiveandpredictable, and I couldn’t get the words out of my head. I took a breath and a moment to center myself.
“I like a lot of books,” I said at last, the words stiff at first, then loosening. “Mostly thrillers. Action-adventure. Stuff where the danger’s on the page, not real life.” My leg started bouncing, and I forced it still. “When I was a kid, I used to read Willard Price. Those… uh, animal adventure ones? I must’ve readAmazon Adventurelike twenty times.”
Her expression warmed. “Those are wonderful books.”
“Yeah.” My voice came out quieter. “And then later I got into detective stuff. Police procedurals. Mysteries. Figured if I couldn’t fix anything in real life, at least someone got justice in a book.”
The second the words left my mouth, my stomach dropped. Jesus. Why the hell had I said that? That was… personal. Too personal. And I hadn’t meant to hand it over like it was nothing.
I felt myself stiffen, every muscle bracing for her to dig, to poke at the soft, stupid place I’d just exposed.
But Elena didn’t pounce.
She nodded, slow and thoughtful, as though what I’d said made perfect sense. “Stories where justice comes through can be comforting,” she said. “Especially for people who’ve seen too much of the opposite.”
I didn’t know what to say to that—didn’t know how to pretend it didn’t hit dead-center. I lifted a shoulder, trying for indifferent and landing somewhere closer to fragile.
“It’s just books,” I muttered. “Nothing deep.”
Elena smiled—not calling me out. “Most meaningful things look simple on the surface. We can come back to that later. For now… tell me what you liked about those Willard Price adventures. What made you pick them up again and again?”
My mouth opened before my brain caught up. “My dad used to read them to me.” The words were quiet, almost unsure, like they weren’t mine yet. “Before he… before he passed. Cancer. I was eight.”
Elena’s expression softened, but she didn’t tilt her head or say she was sorry or give me that look people do when they don’t know what to do with grief that old. She just… listened.
“Mom wasn’t much of a reader,” I went on, heat prickling the back of my neck. “After he died, it was just me and the books. Same ones, over and over. Felt like…” I swallowed. “Felt like I could still hear him when I opened them.”
Elena’s voice stayed gentle. “There’s safety in repetition. In knowing what comes next. In opening a book and finding the same words waiting for you, unchanged, when everything else has shifted under your feet.”
My chest was too tight. She’d gotten too close, too fast, without even trying.
I stared at my hands. “Yeah. I guess… I liked knowing nothing bad could surprise me. Not in those books. I knew the dangers—they were written down. I knew the ending. I knew the brothers always made it out. Safe. Together.” My throat ached.
“Real life isn’t always like that,” Elena said. “But the things we return to—stories, routines, old books—they show us what our nervous system is trying to find again. Predictability. Safety. A place where you don’t have to brace for the next hit.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t meant to. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Elena let the quiet settle—not heavy, not awkward, just… room to breathe. She asked a few easy things after that. What Gabbi liked. Whether I’d always been a morning person. If I’d tried Marcus’s chili yet. Was I looking forward to New Year’s Eve? Nothing that mattered enough to hurt.
And somehow, talking about absolutely nothing made it easier to sit there without feeling like my skin was too tight.
After a while, she closed the notebook she’d barely written in. “I think that’s a good start for today.”
