Title: Therapy

Author: ZombieJazz

Fandom: Law & Order: SVU

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Law and Order SVU and its characters belong to Dick Wolf. The characters of Will (and his family) and Noah have been created and developed for the sake of this AU series.

Summary: Olivia talks to her therapist about her husband's reaction to her pregnancy test results and the implications it has for their relationship. A O/S of the therapist office scene in Wednesday's child.

Author's Notes: This AU series is for SVU fans and readers who want Olivia to have something that resembles a more normal life outside of work and a family of her own - hopefully somewhat realistically within the canon of SVU. My stories are not EO and never will be. You may want to read some of my other ones for context on the characters in this AU first - though, it's likely fairly self-explanatory on its own too.

Chalk it up to another thing he hated about the apartment. The kitchen. He'd liked their old kitchen. He supposed he'd thought he'd liked the new kitchen. Or at least he'd liked that his wife seemed to like it. It was modern. It had lots of cupboard space. It had a reasonable amount of counter space. But it was the layout Will hated.

The island counter just made him feel so exposed. There was no privacy. They were on display to whoever was in their dining space or their living room. Usually that was no one more than Noah – and sometimes his parents. But before if they retreated into their kitchen they could exchange looks or whispers mostly unnoticed. They could chat without feeling like their son was watching and listening to them. They could just have some space to be a couple even amid the bustle of their routines. And it was something they took advantage of. They'd often stand in the kitchen in the mornings while they were all trying to get out the door. They'd catch up on the events of the day while the evening meal was prepared. Sometimes they'd even just stand there and talk while they waited for the kettle to boil to have some sort of hot drink in the evening after they got Noah to bed – before they set about on their work they'd brought home to try to get done before the next morning or before they ended up sitting in front of the TV and trying to forget about work for at least a few hours.

It wasn't just that, though. It was that in their old kitchen, Will could lean against the counter and off in a corner and feel like he wasn't in the way. Now he always felt like he was in the way. There was nowhere to lean. Nowhere to hide. He couldn't just stand and watch his wife cook or work or talk to her. He was underfoot and her looks and body language said as much. Even when he offered to help she usually didn't want it. So instead it made him just stay out of the kitchen – and out of the way – when she was in there. It'd been yet another way their interactions had home had been cut down. He wondered if she realized that?

That night, though, he was trying to make the effort. He was staying underfoot and watching her cook despite her body language, despite having to dodge her and her shooting him a dirty look every time she turned to make a move from the stove to sink to counter to fridge to cupboard.

Will still found it strange to watch his wife do the cooking. Or at least do the cooking on a weeknight. That had so much become his job. Most week nights – before – he was the one who'd be home first and who would make a meal for Noah, and technically for her and him, if she managed to get home at a reasonable hour to eat dinner together as a family.

It wasn't that Liv didn't cook before. It was just that she usually reserved those duties for the weekends. She made sure that everyone had something that resembled breakfast in their bellies before they went out the door and that their were lunches packed and in bags being dragged with them. But it was him who did the dinners. Just … not any more.

He knew some of that was because he wasn't home. He kept odd hours. He had to admit – at least internally – that he often avoided being home for a family dinner (at least lately) where they actually had to sit and look at each other and talk to each other. Some nights, anymore, that was just too hard. It'd been hard since May but it had evolved (or he supposed devolved) from hard to just plain awkward since the trial. It had put into stark perspective to him just how fucked up the entire experience had been – in a whole new way that was even more painful than going through it the first time – and just how they didn't know how to talk about any of it. Before not talking about it – talking about it in tiny little compartmentalized pieces and than putting it away to deal with another day that seemed to becoming more and more and more of another day – had been easier. The problem was that now the experience – all of their separate experiences and joint experiences and their interpretations of them and society's (or at least the jury's and judge's and lawyers' and those people in that gallery) perspective of them was on full display and contrasted against their fucking psychopath's dictation of them too. Thinking about any of it – all of it, replaying that trial in his head and the things said and then agonizing about what he'd been through and what his wife had been through and what his son had been through, and then trying not to think about it at all because he just couldn't bear it most days – made him feel a little crazy. So it was easier – just easier – not to be there. Not to have to look them in the eye. Not to have to see their pain too. To try not to think about the things that he couldn't stop thinking about.

So Olivia had picked up the slack in his retreat. Their son had to eat after all. She didn't like feeding him take-out regularly. She liked to carefully regulate everything that went into Noah's body. Sometimes to the point that even Will – who had thought he was far more of a health nut than Olivia had been when they'd met – thought it was absurd.

The transition, though, to Olivia becoming the cook had started before the move. Before the true extent of his retreat into the background. Before he took on extra hours at work. Before he started coming home less predictably. It'd started in the weeks and months following the assault. While they were living with his parents. He wasn't sure if it'd started out of necessity. Of her getting sick of his mother's cooking and how little it resembled what they'd eat in their previous lives. Or if it was with watching daytime TV and the cooking channels and her wanting to try some of the things she saw just to pass time and to find a distraction. Or if maybe it was his mother rubbing off on her and the frenzy of cooking and feeding the family had started to take root in his wife. Or maybe it was some sort of effort to give back to his parents for them having put up with them. Though, he wasn't sure his parents really liked anything that Olivia cooked – not that they'd ever say so.

It wasn't that she cooked strange things. Not to Will anyways. But she wasn't a particularly talented chef. She wasn't particularly bad either. Will had had her in his life long enough that he had a list of dishes that he preferred when she made them. Things that when they were made with her recipe and seasoning just tasted better than when other people made them.

It used to be like that before with more things than cooking. Things – his life – had just been better with the elements that Olivia had added to them.

He hated that he was struggling so much with focusing on that anymore. He needed what she added to his life. He didn't want her to leave him. That would kill him. He already knew how scary and how much it hurt just to see her hurt or to be without her for a few days. He didn't want to think about what his life would look like without her for the rest of his days. But it was so hard to figure out how to get things to work again. It wasn't like before. It never would be. He'd changed – and so had she.

Olivia was making something simple that night. Thai noodles. It didn't even look like she'd resorted to adding any meat. Though, she had some tofu baking in the oven and eggs sitting out on the counter, which he expected would eventually end up amid the vegetables waiting to be tossed into the stir fry. It was something Noah would eat without complaint. Hopefully. That was likely the ultimate goal.

"Are you sure you don't want me to do anything to help?" he offered again. She'd already declined. Twice.

They'd talked after their appointment. Or at least as much as they could in a rather rapid pace walk back to the subway to each make their ways back to their workplaces. She hadn't seemed angry with him but he supposed it had still felt a little strained and distant. But most of their interactions always seemed to feel that way anymore. At least she wasn't angry. He didn't think?

He wouldn't have blamed her if she was. He knew, for a fact, he'd said things she didn't like at the therapist's office. He wasn't sure if he was happy she'd said everything he'd said. But he hadn't really liked a lot of the things she'd been saying to him lately at home. He understood where she was coming from but he also had this nagging feeling that she didn't understand where he was coming from. Maybe it was more that he didn't feel like he was supposed to be coming from anywhere. It was supposed to be about her. It wasn't supposed to be about him. He kept trying not to have feelings about any of it – unless it was about trying to support Olivia. But it wasn't really working and instead he felt like he was failing even more at being there for his wife.

He hadn't really gone into the session planning to say much of anything. He thought he'd likely just kind of sit there and let Liv talk at him and the therapist talk at him and get their referral that she wanted and be on his way. He didn't know if it was because he was running late and he felt flustered or if it was that the prodding or the way Liv and the shrink were looking at him or how Olivia almost contradicted everything he said at the start – but he knew he'd spilled his guts. Not entirely. There was more he could say. A lot more he wanted to say. A lot more he needed to say. But he supposed it was all a lot more than he was ready to say. But it didn't change the fact that inside that shrink's office, he'd said more than he'd meant too.

He'd spent some time after they'd separated, letting it all run through his head again. It had run through his head even more after he got back to his office and he had some quiet time before he had to go to his next lecture. But reflecting on it had been bad. It only made him feel more crazy and he started second-guessing everything he said and stressing about how his wife was interacting with it. What she was thinking? He'd sent her a couple texts to check in because he didn't want her to be pissed. He didn't want to have made things worse. But she'd only sent back short replies.

She always hated when he sent texts at work. At least anymore. Another thing on the list of things that just didn't seem to work that well anymore. Before exchanging a few texts during the day had been a light-hearted reprieve and a necessary evil in co-ordinating their lives – or at least the schedule of their child. But it was yet another not anymore.

She glanced at him and seemed to consider his request a bit more this time. "Do you think Noah will eat a mango salad?" she asked.

He looked at her. It was a strange question. He shrugged and glanced over to where their son more-or-less seem immersed in what was on the television, though he had an action figure hanging off his bottom lip while he stared blankly at the screen.

It occurred to Will that Noah likely shouldn't be watching TV. That he should be helping with dinner or doing schoolwork before they sat down to eat. Or generally doing something more productive with his time than sitting there and looking like a zombie. But Noah looked like a zombie a lot anymore. He supposed they all did. The spark just wasn't there. He missed that spark. They'd been able to keep that spark alive through other hard things but this – this had seemed to extinguish it.

"I don't know," Will said. "Did you ask him?"

She looked back to her wok. "He says he's not hungry." She paused. "He says that every night," she clarified like this was information he didn't know.

"Oh," Will allowed.

He supposed that maybe he didn't really know that. It wasn't like he babysat Noah eating much anymore. That had always been Liv's job.

Her son would only ever eat for her. That's how it had always been – since Noah was a little boy. It'd only gotten worse with cancer. It'd gotten ridiculous after her abduction. Will just didn't have that fight in him. He figured the boy would eat when he was hungry. If he wasn't hungry – he wasn't hungry.

"Will you eat a mango salad?" she asked instead.

He gazed at her and shrugged. "Yeah. I guess."

"Then you can cut up a mango," she said.

He watched her for another moment. He wasn't really sure he liked his assigned task. But he supposed it gave him a reason to be in the kitchen space, so he went to the fridge and found the fruit, pulling out a carrot, red onion with it. He pulled open their drawers checking to see if they had any cilantro or mint or parsley around. They didn't. So it would just have to be what it was. A make-shift salad for a make-shift family eating a make-shift dinner and likely trying to piece together make-shift conversation so they could get on with their night that would likely feel just as awkward as their dinner.

"I'm likely going to have to either work late or go back in tomorrow," she said after he'd already started working on his chopping.

He glanced at her and gave her a small nod. "OK," he said. "That's not a problem. I can be home. Pick him up from school. Whatever you want."

She caught his eyes. "You can actually come if you want." He gave her a questioning look. "It's more of a … chaperone thing. I just want to go check something out. It's a comedy show. That comedian, Josh Golloway. He's giving us four tickets. Nick doesn't want to go. Or is going down to see his daughter. Or something."

She sounded a little pissed off at her partner … or whatever he was now with her new position that Will didn't quite understand how it had affected the work dynamic or the squad organization yet. He wondered why she was pissed? What was going on there? She usually came to Nick's defense if he ever said anything about disliking the guy. But apparently she disliked him tonight too. Not that she'd likely tell him why or what was going on.

"So it's not work?" he asked.

She shrugged. "It is work but it isn't. I want to see his show."

"Josh Golloway?" Will asked and she allowed a small nod. "Isn't he the guy who's whole shtick is rape jokes?"

"Yeah," she allowed.

"That doesn't sound like a great Friday night to me," he said flatly. She just watched him for a moment and then turned back to her concoction without saying anything.

There had been a time when Will had thought he had a good read on Olivia. That he knew her looks. That he knew what her different kinds of silences meant. That he could tell what she was thinking even if she wasn't saying it. There were still some areas that she kept personal – private. Areas that they were still working on peeling away – like layers in an onion. That she was still letting him get to know her just bit by bit. He appreciated that, though. He was a private person too. As much as he shared with Olivia there were pieces of him that he kept to himself too. Things that she didn't need to know. But he thought even though they both internalized, even though they were both private, even though they both had their secrets, that he knew her enough. Could read her enough. She was his wife. His best friend. He knew her. Or at least he had.

He didn't read her so well anymore. So many of her facial expressions and bits of body language and silences felt the same anymore. It was all just hurt. It was all just quiet. It was all just haunted. Or maybe his own pain was clouding how he could see and interpret and interact with hers. Either way, the reality was that he couldn't tell what this particular silence meant. If she was upset with him for saying it sounded like a shitty way to spend a Friday.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"It's a Tompkins Square University event. I think it's at the Comic Strip."

Will made a sound and looked at her again. "And who's going to this with you?"

"Fin and Rollins. And then I have the fourth ticket. I might just … give it away, ask another cop … if you don't want to come."

He eyed her. "And why are you going to this?"

"That's work related," she said flatly.

He did know that was her way of saying drop it. Or at least that she wouldn't be saying anymore no matter what he asked. Olivia only talked about her job – and specific cases – on her terms. Even before her assault, her reference to actual cases had been fleeting – even when he knew through the media exactly what she was working on. Since the assault and her return to the job, she'd said nothing to him about work. Likely because she knew it was a sore point with him. But her not talking about it only made it sorer. Even scarier.

"I don't think I want to go," he provided. What he really hoped it conveyed was that he didn't want her going either. But he'd never had much control over what Olivia did and didn't do. She likely wouldn't be with him if he ever had. Olivia wouldn't tolerate controlling men. Which he thought was somewhat ironic considering she spent her work-life pretty much surrounded by them.

"OK," she allowed and was quiet for a moment but then added, "I think I'll try to come home and go back in then."

"Back into the city?"

"Yeah," she said flatly.

"That's kind of dumb," he commented. Enlightened words. He knew she wouldn't like them. "What time is this thing?"

She shrugged at the stove. "I'd have to look at the ticket. Ten, I think."

"That's late," Will said.

Another shrug. "It's at a club on a Friday night. It's not going to start at seven."

Will let out a small sigh. He didn't like it. In multiple ways. It too many ways that were now racing through his mind. Her being out that late. Her being in the city that late. Her finding her way home after it that late. Her being in a night club. Her being surrounded by people drinking. Her being around a guy who thought rape was a joke. Her being surrounded by men, likely – particularly stupid, drunk college-aged 'men'.

"Just be careful," was all he managed to say, or at least all he managed to allow himself to get out. Even that might've been too much based on the look her gave him.

"I'll be fine," she said pointedly.

"OK …" he allowed quietly and looked back to his cutting, chopping and dicing.

"I'll be with Fin and Rollins," she provided again. "If something's bothering me, I'll leave."

"OK …" he said just as quietly and didn't look at her. He could feel her eyes on the back of his head, though. He couldn't tell if it was a look, a glare, or a drilling gaze. But he could definitely tell they were there and he gave her a small glance over his shoulder.

"Just say what you want to say," she told him bluntly.

He kept his eyes on her – or at least in her direction – though he found his gaze shifting away from hers because it definitely didn't look happy with him or his response to any of this.

"I'm not thinking anything," he lied. "Beyond … just be safe."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine," she near hissed.

"OK …" he allowed again.

"Say what you're thinking," she pressed more sternly that time. "Are you afraid you're going to hurt my feelings? I think we've already crossed that bridge today."

So she was angry. Or at least hurt. Or at the very least slightly peeved at him. At least that much was clear now. But Will wasn't sure he wanted to know that either. Because that wasn't what he wanted at all.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said with a small twinge in his voice that he hoped he was hiding. He always hated when he was the one hurting her or adding to her hurt. He knew he was playing that role a lot anymore. It was something he wanted for the person he loved.

But she just shrugged. "I want us to talk," Olivia said. "You're going to say things that are hard for me to hear. I'll say things that are hard for you to hear. It's part of getting through this. So you can start by saying what you're thinking right now, because your body language is telling quite the story, Will."

He sighed. He hated that she was better at reading his body language than he was at reading hers anymore. Though, he supposed in some ways he was more of an open book than her. He'd always worn his heart on his sleeve a little more than her. He put himself out there a bit more than her. Sometimes it felt like he was always the one putting himself out there a bit more than her. Every goddamn step of the way in their relationship that no matter how he looked at it, it had always looked like work. It had never been easy. Now he knew it never would be. He hated all that. But he forced himself to repeat that the only reason that she could read his body language better than he read hers at the moment was that its what she did. It was what she'd been trained to do. It was what she spent her life doing. He didn't want to read anymore into it than that. He wouldn't let himself. Or else he might let himself get angry.

"OK …" he said and stopped himself mid-syllable realizing it was the phrasing he'd been using passive aggressively already. He sighed. "I'm not thrilled you're going," he put bluntly.

"I can tell," Olivia responded. "Want to tell me why?"

He shrugged. "I think you know why."

"I'm asking you to tell me why," she pushed back.

"Do you want a list?" he said.

She rolled her eyes at him. "Yes, Will, I do." The sarcasm and how unimpressed she was with him that moment dripped from her.

"It's late. It's at a bar. It will be crowded. There will be drinking. There will be young, drunk, obnoxious, young men – who are feeding off of a guy who thinks rape jokes are funny. I don't think any of that is going to sit with you very well."

"Fin and Rollins will be with me," she said yet again. "It will be fine."

"OK," he said growing annoyed and turning back to his salad. "That's another thing. Apparently you can go to a work thing that's not a work thing on a Friday night in the city but that's not something we can do."

Her eyes were beating against the back of his head again. "One," she said, "it is a work thing. And, two, I just invited you go come. You said you didn't want to."

"What would he do with Noah?" he spat out harshly to the point that their son glanced over at him and caught his eyes. Now clearly listening to see why they were talking about him.

Olivia just glared at him, though. Now giving him her full attention. "You want a list?" she repeated back to him sarcastically. "Call your parents. Take him over to your parents. See if Rob's working. Take him over to his station house for a few hours. There's lots of options, Will. If you want to come, come."

"I don't want to come," he said.

"Fine," she said and turned back to the stove. "Then stop whining about it."

"How come when I ask to do things in the city you don't want to?" he pressed back, though. Now he was the one glaring at the back of her head.

She spun back around and glared back at him just as sharply. "I agreed to do that …", she hushed to a whisper, "… Lego thing with you just today." It wasn't quiet enough. Will saw Noah's head perk up again and could feel his ears straining to hear their none-too-quiet conversation above the television noise and in plain sight of him in their unencumbered kitchen.

"I meant something that's just us," he said.

Her eyes nearly rolled again. He could tell she'd had to force herself to keep them in check. "You could've picked whatever you wanted," she said. "Just us. You picked that …" she said with a gesture off into the living room. He wasn't sure if she was gesturing at Noah or what.

"You never say yes when I ask to do something that's us," he argued back.

She did glare at him with drill bits that time. "When's the last time you asked to do something, Will?" she pressed. "I asked last week and … we ended up above your brother's garage with Chef Wong."

"You wouldn't agree to do anything in the city," he said.

"You haven't asked me to do anything in the city," she said in a voice that was clear she wanted to yell it at him but had restrained herself because their son was sitting right there. "I've asked to go to a hockey game, a basketball game. Take me out to fuc …" she trialed off again. "Dinner. A movie. The park. A walk. I don't care. Out. Something."

"You wouldn't enjoy any of that anymore," he said.

She snorted and glared at him. Her eyes were on fire. "I've been repeatedly telling you lately that I'm sick of living like …" that gesture at the vast open-concept that was their apartment. An oversized box. "This."

"Oh, so the solution is to go to some rape show with Fin and Amanda?" he spat.

"Yeah, I guess so, Will," she said with that sarcasm again. "That's exactly what this is."

He knew it wasn't. He knew that it was about work. He knew that she'd given him the opportunity to be there to. To give her support at it. But he'd just turned it down. And now he was turning on her. But sometimes it was so hard to stop himself anymore. His emotions betrayed him. The rationalization behind anything just seemed to fleeting. It all just felt like this sting that kept stinging – strike after strike of the scorpion's tail.

He looked at the ground. He was starting to feel embarrassed. He was feeling guilty – for how he was treating her, for how he was reacting. But his heart was pounding in his chest. He knew his blood pressure at the whole idea of it had gone up. He could feel in the throbbing of his eardrums and the tension building in his head. He'd have another headache that night. And right now he wasn't going to be able to blame it on the stress of the therapy session or the chaos of his workday. It was all on him and his reaction to this. Letting his emotions and irrational thoughts get the best of him.

He let out a slow sigh and gave her a glance from his downcast gaze. He could tell she was still seething about the way the conversation had gone.

He shook his head and allowed far too quietly, "It makes me feel like you think you're safe with them. But not with me. Like you don't need me."

He hated that he kept saying that. It made him sound needy, he thought. But it was a reality. It wasn't like Olivia had ever really needed him. Or at least that's the way he felt sometimes even when he stopped and thought about it and knew both he and she could come up with a long list of examples of times she'd needed him whether she wanted to admit it or not. Maybe that was the problem. He felt like most of the time she didn't want to admit she needed him. And why would she need him? Or feel the need to admit it? She was an incredibly independent woman. He'd known that from the get. She didn't need him. Sometimes he felt like an accessory – and not a very good one at that. One that usually got left at home.

She rubbed her eyebrow at that. Her eyes softened slightly but she also still seemed slightly annoyed.

"Will, it's work," she said more evenly. "That's why I'm going with them. And, we already talked about the other part today. I do need you. I asked you to come. I respect that you aren't interested in going, or don't feel comfortable going. But I need to go."

He sighed. "But you feel safe with them. Like they can protect you."

"I can't keep being afraid of every possible situation, Will," she said. "I need to start seeing what I can handle and learning how to handle situations I'm not entirely comfortable in. It's not about whether I feel safe or protected by them. I shouldn't need to at this anyways. It's a controlled situations. It's a university comedy event. I might not like the comedic content or the venue. But it's going to be fine. I'll be fine."

"You always say you're fine," Will said and cast her a look. "And, you're not."

"You usually know when I'm not," she put back to him. "And I'm working on being more direct with you when I'm not too."

He shook his head and looked down more. "I just mean … I makes me feel like … I can't protect you."

She made you a small sound that sounded slightly annoyed. "Then come," she said. "Be my protector."

It sounded so facetious. Like she hated the concept that she needed a protector – and that even if she did that it could be him.

Will shrugged. "I'm not a very good protector," he said quietly and cast her another look.

Her eyes really had softened at that and she was gazing at him silently. He could read her face that time. He could see at least the sadness and concern there.

"You are," she put back to him softly and far more calmly than she'd sounded for several minutes.

"I just … I feel like I've failed you," he said. He was vomiting out his thoughts and emotions again and he hated it. But it almost felt like a flood gate had been forced open that afternoon and now he was having trouble keeping it inside. It was all just jumping in him – overwhelming his thoughts and mind. "I'm failing you."

Olivia let out a small sigh. "Will, we're just in a rough patch. We just have to keep working at it. You aren't failing me. I know you're trying now. That you want to try."

"It's not that," he said. "It's … not even just with … Lewis," he said more quietly with another glance to where Noah was sitting. "It's all of it. I always have failed you guys. Noah getting sick. You being shot. Everything."

"Will, those two examples are two times you definitely did not fail us," she said. "You were there for us. You were there for me. You're a key factor in what got us through it."

"But I couldn't protect you from it," he said. "It's like … I can't protect you from anything in this world. And … it's just …" He shook his head hard, trying to calm his thoughts. "It's eating me up," he admitted.

"You can't protect us from the world. From life. Things happen, Will. We just have to … deal with them."

He sighed hard. "You shouldn't have to deal with it. Neither should Noah," he said.

Olivia shrugged. "But we will," she countered. "And it's not your fault," she said her voice cracking a bit. "So stop feeling like that. If anything, you can blame me. I'm the one who brought all of this into your and Noah's lives."

He shook his head. "I don't blame you," he said and his own voice betrayed him. "It's not your fault."

He went back to staring at the ground. But it was mostly because he felt the tears coming on and before he could reach up and keep them at bay, one had managed to slip out and drip off his face and to the ground. He wiped more madly at his face at that. But before he'd managed to rid himself of them, to choke them back in, his wife was there and her thumbs had come to his face and swiped them for him and then her arms wrapped around him.

Will stood still for a moment. He felt stiff in the embrace. The standing hug felt so odd and he realized that he wasn't sure the last time they'd hugged in that manner. They'd leaned against each other on the couch and in bed. They'd draped arms around each other or across shoulders and held the other in that manner. But they hadn't embraced. Not like this – and for a moment it felt strange until his body screamed at him how much he'd been missing it. And, he wondered if it had been him who'd been denying them that – or her. Still, his arms came up and returned the grip around her. She felt thinner than his body remembered. His arms seemed to go around her further and against themselves more. Somehow that made him a little sad too. What else had he been missing with how wrapped up in his own head he was?

"You're going to be OK," she told in him a line that was usually his own. "We're going to be OK."

"I miss you," he said in response.

She looked up at him from where her head had found his shoulder. "I'm right here," she said. "There's nothing to miss."

He knew they both knew that was a lie. There was so much to miss – in so many ways. But instead of arguing that point, he just corrected himself.

"I want to figure out how to reconnect too," he said. "I just … I don't know how. And I won't want to hurt you or to make things worse."

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder again and ran her hand up and down his back.

"We may hurt each other a bit along the way, Will," she said. "But it's part of the process and it's not going to make things any worse. It's fine. I trust you. Just trust me. We're going to be fine."

"Yeah," he said quietly and in very weak agreement. He believed her but he didn't at the same time.

Still, he kept holding her and he felt his hand moving up until it found a spot in her hair and cupped the back of her head. Holding her the way she had said at the session she'd previously found great comfort in and had been missing. She felt her relax against him but then also felt a small smile growing against his shoulder.

"Are you rubbing your mango hands into my hair?" she teased gently.

He smiled a little against the top of her head at that suggestion. "I guess I am," he agreed. "I'm sure there must be some sort of holistic conditioning value to mango pulp."

"Hmm," she mumbled against him. "I'm sure …"

He continued to hold her – partially because she didn't seem to be moving and partially because it just felt good. He could feel another set of eyes on them again and glanced over at the couch again to see Noah looking at them and gave him a small smile too. The little boy almost smiled back at him and their son so rarely smiled anymore. His boy language seemed calmer just looking at them too. Maybe he'd some how been missing the hugs too. He likely needed a few of his own too. Will would have to start working on that later that night.

"I guess this means we should keep going to therapy or get the referral … or whatever …" he said after a while.

He could feel her smile against him a bit. "I don't think it was a bad place to start," she said. "You've said more to me today than you have in a month. And whatever the session fee was, it's worth it for this," she added and gripped him a little more tightly.