A/N: Hello my lovelies! Okay, so here's my first attempt at an AU story, don't judge me! This was more of a test run chapter than anything, but if you guys enjoy it, I'll continue! So let me know with reviews and junk, will ya? x

Chapter 1: At Ease I Feel Fine

Tegan's POV

I've always hated therapy offices. The way the waiting rooms always seem to be a half-assed attempt at making an awkward situation comfortable and homey, the dribbling of water in some cheap desktop fountain shoved off into a corner, a sound that blends "harmoniously" with Bach playing over an iHome and the second by second ticking of a clock that has some anxious teenager tapping his feet against the floor in hopes of avoiding a panic attack. The scattered and unorganized magazines left on empty seats by assholes too lazy to set them back in their proper place, the boxes of random toys that I'm sure the majority of which are broken by hyperactive children with anger issues whose parents are too tuckered out to pay them any mind. This room is a breeding ground of air weighed down by depression, anxiety, mania, and hopelessness that we come in hopes of seeking refuge from. Though for some reason, we're all still breathing it in, lingering in our own misery.

My train of thought is derailed by the sound of a door beside me opening, and as most people in this stuffy room, I glance towards it to inspect those who emerge. A young woman dressed in sleek black dress pants and a fitted blazer speaks quietly to a girl I would assume isn't much older than sixteen for just a moment before they part ways, the older of the two who I assume to be a therapist searching out the occupied chairs for her next appointment. Her facial structure is magnificent and quite honestly rather breathtaking: a chiseled jawline met with flawless cheekbones and intense hazel eyes that somehow scan across her surroundings gently, as if her gaze alone could grace the entire waiting room with a shimmer of sunlight to break through the rainclouds of turmoil we all seem to be huddled under. Her hair, a milk chocolate brown, somehow manages to be tussled and meticulously groomed all at once as it waves to cover the corner of one eye and find its resting place behind her ear. She doesn't sport much makeup—perhaps a brush of blush and eyeliner, at best—but the fact that her beauty doesn't come from being made up makes her all the more intriguing. I don't usually fawn over women; quite honestly, I've left a trail of broken hearts in my wake and I'm not entirely ashamed. I've always been the one being chased relentlessly by girls desperate for a piece of my heart, but it seems this situation may be different.

…What the fuck am I saying? I've only just encountered this woman and I know nothing of her existence. Not her name, not her age, hell, I'm not even entirely positive of her occupation. And upon closer inspection, it seems the ring finger of her left hand is occupied by a simple silver band that from my view is barren of diamonds or jewels. If she's married, she certainly isn't spoiled.

A glance at the clipboard in her hand has her speaking up, though her voice is delicate as if she were living in constant fear of shattering the fragile states that the majority of these people exist in. "Tegan Quin?"

A moment passes as I attempt to gather myself over the mere sound of my name tumbling from her silken lips. A shiver takes to my spine, goose bumps lifting beneath my skin in hopes of meeting the sound. I push myself to my feet and immediately hold my breath as our eyes lock for the first time, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips before she outstretches a hand politely. "Tegan?" she asks, to which I simply respond with a slight nod and a flimsy handshake, palm layered with clammy sweat. I've never been so intimidated by another human being's beauty before in my life. Not even my wife's.

"Nice to meet you," she continues, leaning her weight against the door to allow my passing through the doorway and into her office. "Make yourself at home, Miss Quin."

She's so gentle that she doesn't even allow the door to fall closed behind us; instead supporting its weight until it slowly clicks shut. I take a seat on the leather sofa opposite a matching chair, which I can only assume is hers. The office is dimly lit, natural light assisting in the glow as it streams through a nearby window. As she shuffles through paperwork while finding a comfortable spot in her chair, I take advantage of the silence to snoop about with my eyes. Bookshelves upon bookshelves organized alphabetically and neatly, though their presence gives the room a slightly cluttered feel. I make note of certificates and degrees hung neatly in mahogany frames that contrast the beige walls in a warm manner. The entire vibe of her office is nothing like the waiting room, and I'm plenty thankful for that. I don't need to shoulder the struggles of strangers along with my own burdens. I've done enough of that for years, and it's time to be a little selfish.

"So Tegan," she starts, bringing my focus back to her. "I don't know if they told you but my name is Dr. Clement…" those honey eyes were falling upon my own again, making that swimming sensation in my head return to life. "But you can call me Sara. I don't want this to be stiff and informal. Who wants to spill their guts to someone they don't know, right?"

Her attempt at loosening the ties that bind me to my apprehension is received with a slight chuckle, though I'm sure she's trained to realize that my defensive walls are still stacked, guns blazing. Apparently pleased with her successful first go, she crosses one leg over the other and leans forward, elbow against her knee as her balled fist supports her chin. She looks a bit like The Thinker sculpture, and I wonder if Auguste Rodin had something to do with her immaculate existence. "So you can just tell me whatever you feel comfortable telling me. Therapy can be a weird space sometimes, so I understand if you're hesitant."

She notices that my index finger and thumb have taken to absentmindedly turning my own wedding band back and forth as I examine it, noting that it needs polishing. It's scuffed, much like the relationship that it is meant to symbolize. "You're married," she says, though in a tone meant as a question more than a statement. I nod, though hesitantly, and immediately kick myself mentally for doing so. Her job is to pick up on body language, you dumbass. She can read you like a fucking book. And judging by her collection, she does that rather well.

"Yeah," I finally say, shrugging sheepishly. "But we're in a bit of a rocky spot right now, so…"

As my voice trails off, she leans forward, cocking her head in hopes of catching my eyes. When I finally allow her the opportunity, the corner of her lips turns up in a half smile, honey coloured orbs glazed over in understanding. "And I'm here to help you sort through that, Tegan," she says in the most comforting and soothing voice I've heard in years. "I can help you with some of the burden."

I can feel a pulling, tugging, knotting of my heartstrings when her sincerity radiates towards me. I'm so fucked up, so broken and tattered, so worn from attempting to put myself together without proper knowledge of anatomy. Life's been crumbling to ruins lately, fraying at the seams, and the weight of burden along with the heaviness of the world on my shoulders has weakened me to a point beyond carelessness. I've ruined my marriage, ruined my career, and ruined myself in the process. But here in Dr. Clement's office, a glimmer of hope finds its way into my life, an offering of light at the end of the tunnel.

It's corny as fuck, but that glimmer resides in her.