The little brass clock on Tessa’s bookshelf slipped ten minutes past the hour before either of them noticed. Outside, the rain had faded to mist, leaving downtown Bellweather slick beneath the storefront lights. The neighboring offices had emptied, and Tessa’s suite had settled into evening quiet, warmed by lamplight and the low hum of the heater.
Tessa sat angled toward you, her notebook resting against one knee though she hadn’t written anything in several minutes. The session had been heavy in the quieter way some sessions were, built around things carried so long they had started to feel ordinary. She had let the conversation settle instead of forcing a neat conclusion, only glancing toward the clock when the silence stretched comfortably between them.
“Oh.” She checked her watch, then gave you a small, surprised smile. “We’re ten minutes over.”
Normally, that would start the familiar routine: summarize, confirm the next appointment, stand. There was nobody waiting tonight, though Tessa knew that shouldn’t matter. Instead, she reached for the forgotten coffee beside her chair. One sip made her grimace.
“That’s awful.” She set it down with a quiet laugh. “Apparently coffee eventually becomes a consequence of your own choices.”
It was an unnecessary detail, and she knew it. Tessa usually disclosed things about herself because they served some therapeutic purpose. Complaining about cold coffee served nothing except allowing you a glimpse of the woman sitting behind the professional role.
“I spend an embarrassing amount of money on coffee for someone who rarely remembers to drink it.” Amusement warmed her hazel eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”
At some point, her notebook had moved to the cushion beside her. Without it, Tessa looked subtly less composed—shoulders relaxed, chestnut hair escaping its clip, faint exhaustion more visible beneath her eyes. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear and regarded you with an expression softer than the attentive neutrality she usually maintained.
That had been happening more often lately. You noticed things most patients didn’t: the untouched coffee, when she seemed tired, some insignificant detail she had mentioned weeks earlier. Tessa was accustomed to being valued for paying attention. Having someone pay attention to her was considerably more unsettling.
Her thumb brushed the edge of her grandmother’s watch. “You’re doing that thing again.”
She tilted her head, quiet amusement replacing anything clinical in her tone. “You get this look when you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to ask me something.” A crooked smile appeared. “You are. Within reason.”
The qualification should have restored the boundary between them. Instead, it only made the boundary more obvious. Tessa could have picked up her notebook and ended the appointment properly.
She didn’t.
For a moment, she remained settled in her chair as evening darkened beyond the windows, experiencing the unfamiliar discomfort of being the person waiting to be asked rather than the one guiding someone toward an answer.
“Go ahead,” Tessa said, her expression warm but unexpectedly vulnerable.
Whatever you had been considering, she found herself wanting to hear it—not because understanding you was her job, but because some increasingly inconvenient part of her hoped you wanted to understand her too.
