Page 54 of Johan. (Van Den Bosch #8)

Hannah

I wake up to the sound of my phone beeping.

Groggily, I reach for it on the nightstand, blinking against the bright screen.

It’s a picture of Johan on a plane with Ludovic, Lukas, and the rest of the team, Johan smiling and looking ready for adventure, a glass of bubbly in hand.

His message reads, “ On my way to play Indiana Jones X. ”

I smile at the thought of him off on such a wild archaeological dig. Stretching, I slip out of bed, shivering as my feet touch the cold floor of my dorm room. Outside, the January wind howls, rattling the old windows. It’s Cambridge in winter—bitterly cold, with rain drizzling against the glass.

As I make my way to the bathroom, I wrap my arms around myself for warmth. I splash water on my face, trying to shake off the sleepiness. When I look in the mirror, I gasp. Hickeys. Lots of them. Memories of last evening flood back, and my cheeks flush.

Grabbing my phone, I quickly type out a message to Johan. Just realized how much you marked my skin!

His reply is almost instant. Of course, I did. Sadly, on my end, I only have one small hickey of yours.

I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible,” I mutter to myself, but I can’t wipe the grin off my face.

For now, I’ve got a whole week before classes start again.

All I need to do is avoid Astrid and focus on my studies.

The prospect of a quiet week dedicated to catching up on reading and preparing for the semester ahead is comforting.

I take a deep breath, determined to make the most of this time and stay out of Astrid’s way.

I promised Johan I’d do this. I owe it to him.

I owe it to myself. But as I stand outside the door of the therapist’s office, my heart is hammering so loud in my chest that I can’t hear anything else.

My palms are damp, fingers fidgeting with the strap of my bag.

For a second, I consider turning around and leaving.

Just walking back out into the cold Cambridge air and forgetting I ever came.

But I don’t. Instead, I swallow hard, take a deep breath, and knock softly.

“Come in,” a calm voice calls from inside.

I push the door open and step into a small but cozy office.

Soft light filters through the window, casting a warm glow over the room.

There’s a comfortable-looking armchair across from a desk and a few framed certificates on the wall.

A woman stands up from behind the desk, smiling kindly.

She looks to be in her mid-forties, with short, dark hair and eyes that seem to radiate patience.

“Hannah, right?” she says, extending her hand as she approaches. “I’m Dr. Bennett.”

I nod, forcing a small smile as I take her hand. It’s warm, and her grip is firm, reassuring. “Yes. Hi,” I manage to say, my voice smaller than I intend it to be. I quickly wipe my damp palm on my jeans, hoping she didn’t notice.

“Please, have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the armchair by the window. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Comfortable. Right. That seems impossible right now.

But I sit down anyway, perching on the edge of the chair, my hands tightly gripping my bag in my lap like a lifeline.

I shift in the seat, trying to settle into something that doesn’t feel like I’m ready to bolt for the door.

The silence stretches for a moment, and I can feel my pulse throbbing in my ears.

Dr. Bennett sits across from me, crossing her legs casually, a notepad resting on her lap. She’s watching me with a patient gaze, not pushing, just waiting. The quiet hum of the room feels heavy. Finally, she speaks.

“How are you feeling today, Hannah?”

How am I feeling? The question seems so simple, but the answer is… complicated. I shrug slightly, my throat tightening. “Nervous,” I admit, forcing the word out before I lose my nerve. “I’ve never really done this before.”

“That’s completely understandable,” she says, her voice gentle but steady. “Starting therapy can feel intimidating, especially the first session. But you’re here, and that’s already a huge step.”

I nod again, unsure of what to say. My fingers continue to fidget with the strap of my bag, twisting it between my hands.

The silence returns, and I feel the weight of her gaze on me.

It’s not judgmental—more like she’s waiting, giving me space to find my footing.

I can feel the discomfort crawling up my spine, and the urge to fill the silence bubbles up.

“I… uh,” I stammer, feeling my face flush. “I don’t really know how to start.”

Dr. Bennett gives a small, encouraging smile. “That’s okay. We can start wherever you feel comfortable. Maybe we could talk about why you’re here today?”

My stomach tightens at her words. I knew this moment was coming, but now that it’s here, the thought of saying it out loud makes me squirm. I clear my throat, glancing down at my lap.

“I promised someone I’d come,” I say quietly, barely above a whisper. “Johan. He… he thinks I need help.”

“And what do you think?” she asks softly, leaning forward just a little. Her tone is calm, like she’s genuinely interested, not just going through the motions.

I hesitate, feeling the familiar knot tighten in my chest. “I… I don’t know. Maybe he’s right,” I finally say. “It’s just… I’ve never really talked about it before. It feels… embarrassing.”

“That’s understandable,” Dr. Bennett says gently. “Talking about things like this can be hard. But there’s no judgment here, Hannah. This is a safe space. You can talk about anything you need to, at your own pace.”

Her words are soothing, but I still feel a tightness in my chest, the anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface. I shift in my seat again, my hands now gripping the sides of the chair. The silence hangs for a moment, and I know she’s waiting for me to continue.

“I—” I stop, biting my lip. The words feel heavy, stuck in my throat. But then I think of Johan, of the promise I made to him, and I force myself to continue. “I have a problem,” I say finally, the words tumbling out faster than I intend. “With… with stealing.”

I don’t look at her as I say it, staring down at the floor instead, my face burning with shame. I wait for the judgment, the disappointment, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Dr. Bennett’s voice remains calm, even.

“Stealing,” she repeats softly, like she’s gently handling the word. “That must be difficult for you to talk about.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” I croak. “It’s not like I want to. I just… I can’t help it sometimes. It’s like this urge, and then I feel terrible afterward. But I still do it. It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” she says gently. “What you’re describing sounds a lot like kleptomania, which is more common than you might think. It’s a disorder, not a moral failing. The fact that you’re here, willing to talk about it, is already a big step toward managing it.”

Kleptomania. Hearing the word said so plainly makes it feel a little less monstrous, but still, it’s uncomfortable. I nod, still feeling the heat in my face. “Johan said the same thing. He made me promise I’d see someone about it.”

“Johan sounds like he cares about you a lot,” she says, and I finally glance up at her. Her expression is warm, her eyes soft. “But this process isn’t just for him—it’s for you. You deserve to feel in control of your life.”

I swallow again, feeling a small wave of relief, though it’s still tinged with anxiety. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Dr. Bennett nods, her smile encouraging. “We’ll take this one step at a time, okay? There’s no rush. We’ll work through it together.”

I exhale slowly, some of the tension easing out of my shoulders. This is harder than I thought it would be, but maybe, just maybe, I’m in the right place.