Page 65 of Push My Buttons

Dr. Levine's smile is knowing but professional. "That kind of acceptance can be profoundly healing. Have you been practicing the vocalization exercises we discussed?"

I nod, appreciating her tactful change of subject."Every day. I can make more sounds now. Controlled ones."

It's another small victory. I've always been able to make involuntary sounds—moans, gasps, even screams during particularly intense moments with Jace and Theo. But forming deliberate sounds, the building blocks of speech, has been painstakingly difficult.

"And the stalker?" she asks. "Any contact since we last spoke?"

"Nothing,"I sign, relief evident in my movements."No notes. No flowers. Nothing since Jace and Theo moved in."

"That's significant," she says. "Their presence may have deterred whoever was watching you."

I want to believe that. Want to believe that whoever was terrorizing me has given up, moved on. But there's still that feeling—that prickling awareness of being observed that follows me sometimes when I leave the apartment.

"I still feel watched sometimes,"I admit."Like eyes on me when I'm out. But maybe that's just... aftermath. Hypervigilance."

Dr. Levine considers this. "Possibly. The mind doesn't distinguish easily between real and perceived threats, especially after prolonged trauma. But trust your instincts, Wren. They've kept you safe so far."

I nod, appreciating that she doesn't dismiss my concerns. That's been the most valuable part of therapy—having someone validate my experiences without judgment.

"I'd like to try something different today," she says, setting her notepad aside. "We've been working on accessing your memories through visualization. I'd like to try a more direct approach with the physical symptoms."

I tilt my head, curious.

"I'd like you to try speaking," she says gently. "Just one word. Whatever feels most accessible to you."

My heart rate immediately spikes, panic fluttering in my chest. I haven't spoken a single word in almost twenty months. Not since waking in that hospital bed.

"I know it's frightening," she continues, her voice calm and steady. "But you've been making sounds. Your vocal cords work. The physical capability is there."

I swallow hard, my hand instinctively rising to my throat.

"You don't have to," she adds quickly. "This is entirely your choice, Wren. But sometimes, breaking through that final barrier requires a leap of faith."

A leap of faith. I think of Jace and Theo. How they've leapt for me, time and again. How they've changed their lives to accommodate mine. Maybe I owe it to them—to myself—to try.

I nod slowly, agreeing to the attempt.

"Excellent," Dr. Levine says, her voice warm with approval. "I want you to choose a word that feels safe. Something simple. Something that matters to you."

I think for a moment, considering what word might be accessible. What word I want to reclaim first from the silence that's defined me for so long.

When it comes to me, it feels obvious. I look at Dr. Levine and sign the word I've chosen.

"Home," she reads aloud. "That's perfect, Wren. When you're ready, I want you to take a deep breath and try to form that word. Don't force it. Just see what happens."

I close my eyes, gathering my courage. Home. Such a simple word, but so loaded with meaning. For almost twenty months, I haven't had a home—just hiding places, temporary shelters. But now, with Jace and Theo, my apartment has become something else. Something safe. Something mine.

I take a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs. My hand rises to my throat again, but this time not in fear—in awareness. I can feel my pulse under my fingertips, the subtle vibration of my vocal cords when I swallow.

"H—" The sound catches, barely a breath with the faintest hint of vocalization.

I try again, frustration building. "Hh—"

Dr. Levine remains perfectly still, her expression encouraging but not pressuring. "Take your time and breathe," she says softly. "There's no rush."

I close my eyes again, visualizing the word. Home. Jace's careful touches. Theo's irreverent laughter. The way they move around each other in my kitchen, a choreographed dance ofdomesticity. The way they hold me between them at night, a fortress of warmth and safety.

"H-home."