Page 7

OLIVIA

T he pain’s dulled now—less sharp, more of a steady pulse that hums beneath the surface. A reminder of everything I couldn’t stop. Everything that still lives in the dark corners of my mind, waiting to jolt me awake the second I let my guard down.

The report’s been filed. Typed out in clinical language that makes it all sound so detached. Two male assailants. Medium build. White. Hooded. I gave them what details I could, even though the memory’s slippery. Just flashes, really. Shapes moving fast. Hands like iron. Rage without a target.

They didn’t need a reason.

Some people just hurt because they can. Because they’ve never been taught to sit with their own pain, so they pass it along like a curse.

And now I carry it.

My wedding ring is probably already sitting in some pawnshop display case.

No one will ask whose finger it used to cling to. Whose vows it used to symbolize. What promises it once held, or how many nights I twisted it around and around, trying to remember who I was before I started breaking in invisible ways.

To them, it’s just gold. Just another transaction. Something to melt down or mark up. A story erased.

But it was mine.

It meant something once. Not just the marriage. The fight to keep going. The hope I kept clinging to long after it stopped making sense.

Now it’s gone.

Still haven’t cried.

But I’m close.

I took a few days off. Told myself it was to rest. To give the bruises time to fade. But truthfully, I just couldn’t walk back into this building and pretend I was fine.

I'm not.

Everything feels…off-kilter. Like I’m floating half a second behind myself.

The session notes on my laptop blur in front of me. Letters swimming, sliding out of focus no matter how many times I blink or rub at my eyes.

I’m supposed to be documenting progress. Behavior patterns. Observations that might help someone feel a little less broken. But I can’t make sense of any of it right now. Can’t hold a single thought long enough to finish a sentence.

My concentration’s shot. And not just because of the attack.

It’s everything.

The empty place on my finger where my ring used to sit. The weight of all the stares—soft, pitying, too careful. Like I might crack wide open if someone breathes too hard in my direction.

And then there’s him.

Sebastian Wilde.

The way he looked at me. The way his hand closed around my wrist like he didn’t even think about it—like it was instinct to steady me, to keep me upright even when I didn’t ask.

He shouldn't matter.

But he does.

And that’s its own kind of problem.

That moment flashes again—uninvited, sharp as a matchstrike in the dark.

The way his thumb moved along the inside of my wrist, slow and deliberate. Not possessive. Not even flirtatious. Just steady. Grounding. Like he thought he could keep me tethered with that one small touch. Like maybe he needed the contact as much as I did.

And I hate that I felt it.

Still feel it.

That soft press echoing beneath my skin like a pulse that doesn’t belong to me. Lingering in my chest, where it has no business being.

I shouldn’t be this affected—not by him.

Not by any of it.

Whatever this is—this pull, this flicker of want I keep trying to smother—it crosses a line.

Doesn’t matter that we’ve barely had sessions. Doesn’t matter that I’ve kept everything clinical, professional, restrained. The boundaries are still there. Ethical ones. Lines I swore to never blur, not even a little. Lines that protect him. That protect me.

But the way he looks at me…

God.

It burns straight through every rule I built my life around. Cuts clean through logic and ethics and caution, like none of it ever stood a chance.

And the worst part?

Some small, aching piece of me wants more.

Wants to know what it feels like to be looked at like that without having to look away. Wants to know if his hand would feel just as steady on my back. My waist.

My entire body.

Wants something I have no business wanting.

I’m just—tired.

So fucking tired.

Tired of carrying grief like a second skin. Tired of pretending I’ve moved on when half the time I can’t even breathe without feeling like I’ve left pieces of myself buried in the past. Tired of craving something I’m too afraid to name, because if I say it out loud, it might make it real.

My door isn’t fully closed—just barely ajar. Enough that I catch the blur of movement. There, and then gone, then back again.

Sebastian.

He's pacing just outside the threshold. I catch the restless drag of his hand through his hair.

And then—he stops.

One breath.

Two.

He pushes the door open. Not with a knock, not with hesitation—but with the kind of sharp, deliberate motion that says he’s done holding whatever he's fighting in.

Walks in already pissed. Shoulders tight. Jaw locked. Eyes scanning the room like it might’ve wronged him in some way.

And even before he says a word, I know I’m not ready for whatever this is going to be.

“You’re not scheduled,” I say, standing and moving around my desk.

“Don’t give a shit,” he snaps.

I blink.

His eyes land on my face, flick to my lip, then down to my hands. His jaw tightens. “I want to know what happened?"

"It's not a big deal?—"

"Tell me anyways."

There’s no heat in his voice now—just steel. The kind that doesn’t budge. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his feet are planted like he’s ready to stand there all damn day if that’s what it takes.

I let out a long, shaky breath, full of resignation.

“I was mugged,” I say, barely above a whisper.

“Mugged?” His left eye twitches. He blinks once, slow—like he’s giving the word time to land, to settle, to see if it feels like a lie.

“Yes, mugged."My voice is steadier than I feel."Just outside my place. Two guys—young, I think. I don’t know.” I shake my head. “One grabbed my purse. The other hit me. I think…I think the sidewalk did more damage than he did.”

“You go to the police?”

I nod once, slow.

“What’d they say?”

“That they’ll do what they can.” I shrug. “Which means probably nothing.”

His nostrils flare. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

The silence that follows isn’t quiet. It’s full of tension. His jaw flexes once, then again. Hands fisted at his sides, like he's holding something back. His eyes stay locked on mine, too intense, too still, and the weight of it coils in my chest, sharp and breathless.

"It's not a big deal," I say, even though the words taste like a lie.

“It is a big fucking deal.” His voice is rough, controlled—but only just. “You could’ve been seriously hurt. Or worse. Don’t brush it off like it’s nothing.”

His words knock something loose.

And for the first time in days, everything I’ve been shoving down—grief, fear, rage—surges up all at once, crashing against my ribs like a wave I can’t hold back.

I blink hard, but it’s no use.

One tear slips free. Just one.

It trails down my cheek before I can stop it, hot and uninvited.

He mutters something under his breath—sharp and ragged. Just one word.

“Fuck.”

And then he’s moving.

Two steps and he’s in front of me, closing the space like it’s nothing.

One arm comes around my shoulders, the other across my back, pulling me in tight. No space left between us.

I don’t resist.

Can’t.

My body folds into his, swallowed by warmth and steadiness. Every inch of him radiates heat and something else beneath it. Not lust. Not exactly.

But it’s not nothing either.

He doesn't speak. Just holds me tighter when my breath hitches and my hand fists in the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me standing.

His head dips slightly, chin brushing the top of mine.

Then he pulls back.

Not all at once. Like it costs him something.

His arms loosen, his warmth retreats. And I feel the loss of it immediately—like cold air rushing in through an open door.

A war flashes behind his eyes. The kind that lives in a man who’s spent his whole life learning how not to need. Not to want. Not to feel.

A throat clears.

Sharp. Deliberate.

I flinch, the sound slicing through the fragile quiet like a blade.

Blake leans against the doorframe, one brow raised, eyes flicking from me to Sebastian, then back again. His expression is unreadable—casual, almost—but he saw enough to ask the question without saying it.

“Is my session still on?” he asks, voice light, like we’re all pretending this isn’t what it looks like.

My stomach flips. I take a step back—automatically—creating distance I should’ve never let close.

“Yes,” I say, too fast. Too high. I swallow and try again. “Yes, of course.”

Sebastian doesn’t move.

Not at first.

But something shifts in him.

His shoulders go rigid again, that sharp edge sliding back over his face like armor he never really took off. His eyes flick to Blake. A flash of something unreadable passes between them—an exchange not made of words, but weight.

Sebastian glances back at me. One eye twitches. His jaw ticks. Nostrils flare—but he doesn’t say a word. Just turns and walks out, shoulders squared, pace sharp. He clips Blake hard on the way past, doesn’t even look back.

Blake doesn’t say anything. Just walks in and drops into the chair like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just walk in on something private. Something raw.

And maybe it was just a hug.

Even if Blake saw it—a hug isn’t crossing a line.

Not technically.

But the lie tastes sour the second I tell it to myself.

Because it wasn’t just a hug.

It was comfort. Possession. Longing. A thousand things I’ve spent years learning how to survive without.

And all of it—every beat of it—settled right beneath my skin like it belonged there.

And that’s the part I can’t explain away.

Because I know better.

And I still wanted more.