Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. The plot is my own.
Chapter 14
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When Edward came by the next morning after Seth had left for school, his gaze lingered on the necklace resting against my collarbone. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips, his eyes smoldering with a mix of adoration and quiet satisfaction. He didn't say a word, but the heat in his stare spoke volumes.
Each time he visited, I made sure to feed him. He'd offer—insist, even—to take me out somewhere expensive, a fine-dining experience that he swore I deserved. But the truth was, I wanted to be the one to take care of him. This was how I showed my love, through the act of cooking, of making sure he was full and content before leaving. It had become a ritual between us. A way to keep him here longer.
Jacob, of course, never missed an opportunity to show up when food was involved. After dropping Seth off at home, some afternoons Edward would still be there, lingering in the kitchen or lounging on the couch. Jacob's patience wore thinner by the day, his sharp glances and tense posture betraying his irritation. But Edward seemed unfazed, his focus always drifting back to me.
The week passed in a haze, each moment with Edward feeling like a stolen piece of paradise. He made me feel worshipped in ways I'd never experienced before, though I hadn't yet admitted to him how new it all was—how utterly transformative. The way he touched me, deliberate and unhurried, drew reactions from me I didn't know I was capable of. His voice, deep and commanding, wrapped around me like a spell, pulling me deeper into him with every word. I'd beg him for more, my voice trembling, my body aching for him to go harder, deeper.
When we were together, it wasn't just physical—it was something primal, something that left an indelible mark on me. The echoes of us lingered long after he was gone, the memories haunting the space like a ghost. If I listened closely, I swore I could still hear them, the whispers of our passion clinging to the walls.
On Wednesday night, after Seth decided to stay at Jacob's, Edward gently convinced me to spend the night at his place. He never pressured me, but his quiet persuasion was impossible to resist. His condo felt different now—less like a place I was merely visiting and more like a sanctuary where I truly belonged. Moments of intimacy would sweep over us, as if they were inevitable, and I found myself falling asleep tangled in his sheets, enveloped by his scent. For the first time in years, I felt a deep, unshakable peace.
The next night, back at home, we lay on the phone in silence, Edward's breathing steady as he drifted in and out of sleep. Even with him just a call away, the ache of missing him was almost unbearable. My thoughts spiraled back to him—his touch, his voice, the way he unraveled me with nothing but a look. Without realizing it, my hands began to wander, tracing the curves of my own body as if he were here with me. A soft moan escaped my lips, unbidden, as desire coiled hot and urgent in my stomach.
Edward's voice broke through the quiet, low and rough with sleep but laced with unmistakable hunger.
"What are you doing, Leah?"
His voice alone sent a shiver down my spine, a spark catching in the hollow of my chest.
Before I knew it, it was Friday. Same routine—Edward stopped by, the hours slipping by like a dream. But that morning, he was here for pleasure. He knew how anxious I was about Seth's appointment, how the weight of it sat heavy on my shoulders. He only wanted to comfort me. And he did—in the way he knew best. He ate me out so bountifully, like a man starved, devouring every inch of me until I had no choice but to surrender completely.
He stayed for a couple of hours before leaving for a work thing. I had to take Seth to his appointment. Jacob drove us. The car ride was quiet, the only sounds filling the space between us were the hum of the engine and the low murmur of the radio. No one spoke.
Now, the waiting room was too bright. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bouncing off the clean white walls and the glossy covers of Better Homes and Gardens stacked on the side tables. There were a few old copies of Time and National Geographic too, their edges curled from years of flipping.
The silence wasn't comforting. It was heavy, stretching between us like a chasm neither Seth nor I knew how to cross.
I stole a glance at him. He stared straight ahead, his face unreadable, his fingers drumming a restless beat against his knee. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. And I wasn't sure if I should ask.
I reached for the top magazine, opening it to a random page. My fingers absently smoothed over the paper as I skimmed through—color-coordinated living rooms, tips for growing tomatoes, some recipe for a lemon drizzle cake I'd never make.
Then, I turned a page, and my stomach twisted.
A full-page ad for a suicide hotline.
The bold letters stared back at me, standing out against the soft blue background. You are not alone. A list of numbers followed, along with a photo of a woman staring out a rainy window, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug.
I swallowed hard and shut the magazine. The only noise I could hear for the first few moments were the ticking of the clock.
The door creaked open, and a woman stepped out. She glanced down at a clipboard. "Clearwater, Seth?"
Seth barely reacted. He sat slouched, arms folded, gaze stuck somewhere far away.
I nudged his knee with mine. "Come on," I murmured.
With a heavy exhale, he pushed himself up, moving like it physically hurt to stand. I followed, my hands slipping into my jean pockets as we stepped toward the door.
Entering the back office where the receptionist station was, then to a door nearby.
Dr. Cohen stood just inside the threshold. He was older, maybe in his sixties, with deep lines carved into his face and a neatly trimmed beard. His thick glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, his dark eyes sharp behind them. A red pinstriped beige button-up was tucked into black slacks, his leather shoes polished but worn at the creases. He had the kind of presence that made it clear he'd been doing this for a long time.
"Come on in," Dr. Cohen said, his voice steady and low. He held out his hand as we introduced ourselves, his grip firm but not overbearing.
I stepped in first, scanning the space. The office was warm but clinical—bookshelves lining the walls, a large round clock ticking softly, the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. A black couch sat in front of big windows, their blinds tilted just enough to let in the late afternoon light. Across from it sat a leather armchair, obviously his.
"Have a seat," Dr. Cohen gestured, his tone calm and inviting.
Seth and I sank into the couch. He sat stiffly, arms crossed, shoulders high, as if bracing himself against the room. I sat straighter, my hands gripping my knees, my nails digging into the fabric of my jeans.
Dr. Cohen took his seat, folding his hands in his lap. He studied Seth for a moment, then looked at me, his expression unreadable but not unkind.
"Alright," he said, his voice even. "Let's get started with an assessment."
I glanced over at Seth, whose hand was against his mouth, his elbow resting on the arm of the couch. He was staring at the floor, his jaw tight.
"Can you tell me a little about yourself, Seth?" Dr. Cohen asked, his tone gentle but probing.
It was silent for a moment. Seth shifted in his seat, sighing heavily. "I'm, uh, seventeen. High school graduation is coming up." His eyes flicked over to me briefly before returning to the floor. "This is my sister, Leah."
Dr. Cohen nodded, his gaze shifting between us. "Have you ever done therapy before? Either of you?"
I shook my head as Seth muttered a soft "no."
"Well, the point of this is to just gather information, understand your current concerns, and identify goals for therapy," Dr. Cohen explained, grabbing a notebook from his case beside his seat. He clicked his pen and rested it against his leg, ready to write. "So, what brings you in, Seth?"
From my peripheral vision, I saw Seth shrug. "Our doctor recommended it," he said, his tone flat and matter-of-fact.
Dr. Cohen nodded, unfazed. "Do you happen to have feelings of sadness, anxiety, or anything like that?"
Seth shrugged again, his shoulders lifting and falling like a shield. "I guess. Sometimes."
I almost wanted to roll my eyes, but I fought against it. Instead, I looked down at my hands, gripping my knees even tighter.
Dr. Cohen tapped his pen lightly against the notepad before continuing, his voice calm and neutral.
"Do you feel supported by the people in your life?"
"I do," Seth murmured, barely above a whisper.
"Do you feel safe in your current environment?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any plans or means to harm yourself or others?"
"No."
The only sound in the room was the steady scratch of Dr. Cohen's pen against the notepad—sharp, deliberate, filling the quiet space like a metronome.
"Is there a family history of mental health issues?" he asked, his gaze lifting toward me when Seth hesitated.
I stole a glance at Seth. He was staring at the floor, his knee bouncing slightly. I cleared my throat. "Well," I started, then paused as Dr. Cohen's expectant gaze settled on me. "Our parents never sought this kind of help, but… our mother was diagnosed with postpartum depression after Seth was born. She never got help for it." I swallowed, my voice wavering slightly. "And, um… I don't know. I always thought she might have been undiagnosed bipolar."
Dr. Cohen tilted his head, his expression thoughtful but free of judgment. "What makes you think that?"
I shifted in my seat, my fingers twisting together. "Her behavior became… erratic before—" I cut myself off, my throat tightening. Seth shifted beside me, his knee bumping mine—just a brief touch, but enough to reel me back in. I bit my lip and fell silent.
Dr. Cohen studied me for a beat before his attention returned to Seth. "Do you use any substances to manage your feelings?"
"No," Seth answered quickly, his voice too firm, too automatic.
I frowned, shooting him a look. Lying wasn't going to get us anywhere.
"May I?" I asked, turning to Dr. Cohen.
He nodded, silently giving me the floor.
"We had issues with that," I admitted carefully. "When… when everything first happened, Seth was smoking and drinking. But he's been doing a lot better lately."
Dr. Cohen arched a brow, his pen pausing mid-sentence. "What changed?"
I hesitated, glancing at Seth, but he remained fixed on the floor, jaw tight. "Well," I said slowly, "we have a family friend who's stepped in as sort of a mentor for Seth. That's been a big help."
Dr. Cohen absorbed that, jotting a few more notes. The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the ticking clock and the scratch of his pen.
"It sounds like there's been a lot of change in your lives recently," he observed. "Would either of you like to talk about that?"
Seth's arms folded tighter over his chest. I dropped my gaze to my hands, my throat suddenly dry. Pressure coiled in my ribs, but I refused to acknowledge the worst of it. It stayed locked away, untouched, like a box shoved deep in the back of my mind.
"Not really," Seth muttered.
I dragged a hand down my face, staring off to the side as if something on the wall had suddenly caught my interest. My pulse thrummed in my ears. The question hung between us, unanswered, but I wasn't going to be the one to break the silence.
Dr. Cohen nodded, his expression softening. "That's okay. We don't have to dive into everything today. This is just the beginning."
"That's reassuring," I muttered, half-joking, but the tightness in my chest didn't ease.
Dr. Cohen hummed, resting his fist beneath his chin. "What would you like to achieve through therapy?"
Silence stretched between us again. Then, finally, Seth let out a slow breath.
"I just…" He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tightening around his sleeves. "I want to stop feeling like… like everything's pointless."
His words caught me off guard. I turned to look at him, my brows furrowing, but he kept his gaze fixed on the floor.
Dr. Cohen gave a small nod, his pen gliding across the page again, the soft scratch of it the only sound in the room.
The session continued, but the tension lingered—a hefty weight beneath every question and answer, with me being the one talking for him most of the time. It was clear that Seth wasn't ready to face it head-on. Not yet. But Dr. Cohen didn't push. His calm, patient demeanor made it feel like maybe, someday, he'd find the words.
As soon as the hour was up and Dr. Cohen wrapped everything up, Seth mumbled something about heading outside. I nodded, watching as he pushed through the door, his shoulders hunched like he couldn't get out fast enough. Through the window, I saw Jacob's truck idling in the lot. Seth climbed into the passenger seat without hesitation.
I turned to follow, but Dr. Cohen's voice stopped me.
"Leah."
I glanced back at him, my hand hovering near the door handle. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. "Would you mind staying for just a moment?"
My stomach twisted uncomfortably. "Uh, sure."
He gestured toward the chair closest to his desk. I hesitated before sitting, crossing my arms as if that would protect me from wherever this was about to go.
Dr. Cohen took a seat across from me, his sharp blue eyes studying me for a beat before he spoke. "I know this process can feel overwhelming," he said evenly. "Especially when you're the one holding things together."
I exhaled through my nose, forcing a small shrug. "I'm fine. It's Seth who needs this."
His lips pressed together in a way that told me he didn't entirely believe that. "You've taken on a lot," he continued. "It's admirable, but it can also be... a lot for one person."
I frowned. "I can handle it. I have been handling it."
Dr. Cohen tilted his head slightly. "That's what worries me."
I blinked, thrown off by his bluntness. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that when people convince themselves they're fine—when they push through, hold everything in, keep moving without stopping to process—it tends to catch up with them," he said simply. "It doesn't mean you're weak, Leah. It just means you're human."
A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it down. "I don't need therapy," I said, forcing out a quiet laugh. "I mean, I get why Seth does, but I've… I've already been through it all. And I'm still standing."
Dr. Cohen nodded slowly. "You are. But standing isn't the same as healing."
Something about that sentence made my fingers tighten around my arm. I exhaled sharply, shifting in my seat. "I just—I don't see the point. Talking about it doesn't change anything."
"Doesn't it?" His gaze was steady. "You spoke for Seth a lot today. You made sure the truth was heard, even when he didn't want to say it himself. Why do you think that is?"
I clenched my jaw. "Because someone has to."
He nodded again, as if that was the answer he expected. "And who's making sure your truth is heard?"
The question settled over me like a weight, heavy and suffocating. My throat tightened, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I hated how exposed I felt, like he was peeling back layers I hadn't given him permission to touch.
I stood abruptly, gripping the strap of my bag. "I should go. Seth's waiting."
Dr. Cohen didn't stop me, but his gaze lingered a moment longer than I expected. "If you ever change your mind, my door is open."
I swallowed hard, nodding once, then turned on my heel and stepped out of the office. The warm air outside settled over me, heavy and sluggish.
Jacob was leaning against his truck, arms crossed, watching me with that too-knowing look. Seth was slouched in the middle passenger seat, eyes closed, his head tilted back.
"You good?" Jacob asked, voice low as I reached him.
I forced a smirk, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Yeah."
Jacob huffed a quiet laugh. "My ass. Did he try to sell you guys pills?"
I sighed, glancing at him with an exasperated look. "You're such a twat, Black."
He studied me for a moment, then pushed past me to open the passenger door. "Get in, warrior. Let's get the hell outta here."
I didn't argue. I just climbed in, pulling the door shut behind me with a soft thud.
I felt for Seth, because this shit was gonna be hard.
The following weekend and the week slipped by in a haze. I'd been stress smoking again, keeping myself at that easy level of stoned where everything felt like floating on a cloud—light, distant, detached. Even the moments Edward and I shared felt fleeting, slipping through my fingers before I could fully hold onto them. But he never let me drift too far. He called me every night, his voice grounding me, and still stopped by just to check in, to remind me I wasn't alone. We'd fallen into the habit of falling asleep on the phone together, his voice the last thing I heard before sleep pulled me under. He made me feel safe. He made me feel beautiful.
Seth only had a couple more weeks left of senior year. He was passing everything, but there was still a heavy load of testing to wrap up before he could finally be done. That Friday morning, he mentioned to Jacob and me that he felt good about the latest test—like he had really done well this time. It wasn't just something he was saying to brush us off; he meant it.
After school, he planned to spend some time at the shop, helping Jacob out with cars. But 3 p.m. on Fridays? That time was now reserved for the shrink.
By the time the second session had come and gone, I started to get worried. Seth seemed to have shut down from both me and Jacob. He wanted nothing more than to be alone in his room, silent as a mouse. Jacob refused to let up, pushing me to do something, which only made everything feel ten times harder. By now, Dr. Cohen was peeling back some of the layers, and the process was getting more difficult. The questions he asked were probing, asking Seth to confront emotions he wasn't ready to face. As they navigated through the session, I could imagine Seth reaching a breaking point—feeling overwhelmed by the vulnerability he had to expose.
It wasn't supposed to be this hard. But it was. And I couldn't help but feel helpless as I watched Seth retreat further into himself.
This stirred up a shit ton of anxiety that I kept buried away. This wasn't what I was expecting for his second session.
"You need to pull him out of that shit, I've never seen him like this," Jacob huffed, clearly frustrated.
A band of tension pulled tight across my chest. Letting out a sharp breath through my nose, I shot back, "It takes fucking time, Jacob."
"Oh yeah?" Jacob snapped, his expression anything but calm. "He cried the whole fucking ride here. You have any idea what that does to me?"
I scoffed, heat rising in my chest. "He's my brother, Jacob. How do you think it makes me feel?" This was spiraling in a direction I really didn't want it to. I took a steadying breath before adding, "You're ignorant if you think a physician would suggest something knowing it could make things worse."
"Oh, fuck outta here. It's called a practice!" His voice rose, just enough to make my fists clench at my sides.
My brows shot up. I glared at him, every muscle in my body tensed, warning him to lower his voice and count his blessings. I wasn't in the mood for his shit, especially not now.
Crossing my arms, I kept my gaze locked on his. "I can't believe you'd insinuate that I'd do something to hurt Seth."
Jacob's jaw tightened, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. "Well, you have been distracted lately," he muttered pointedly.
My jaw dropped. "Don't go there, Jacob," I warned, my voice sharp.
He met my eyes, his expression softening just a fraction, but the tension in his posture remained. Running a hand through his long dark hair, he let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm not saying that, Leah. But I don't get how we're supposed to sit back and just... wait for him to 'feel better.' Yeah, he's gonna have tough days, but why the hell are we letting him shut us out for days on end? Therapy's hard—I get it—but this feels like it's going nowhere. Maybe what he needs is a wake-up call instead of being coddled."
Frustration bubbled over, and I shook my head. "This isn't about coddling him, Jacob. It's about giving him the space to deal with things at his own pace, not forcing him to move faster than he's ready for."
"Then what?" He was almost pleading now. "What if it's not enough? I get it, Leah, but at some point, we have to step in, right? We can't just let him spiral in his room every damn weekend, can we?"
His skepticism hung in the air, and it felt like I couldn't escape. But I kept my eyes steady, trying to anchor myself. "You're not listening. We are doing enough. This is his process. It's not linear, and pushing him before he's ready isn't gonna fix it. We need to trust that he'll come out of this when he's ready."
The storm in his brown eyes faded slightly, but he still wore the tension like armor. "I just don't know anymore, Leah. I want to help, but it feels like he's slipping further away. And I can't watch him do that. I won't just stand by while he shuts us out and stays locked in his head."
I didn't have the words to argue with him, not right then. I only let out a breath and glanced toward the house, hearing Kujo's paws scratching against the ground as he laid down between us, as if sensing the thick silence.
I rubbed a hand across my forehead, trying to collect myself. "I know you want to help. But this isn't something that can be fixed in a one-two. We have to trust Dr. Cohen and let Seth work through it. He'll get there—just not on your timetable, or mine."
Jacob didn't answer right away. He stood there, his jaw clenched, brow furrowed as if trying to reconcile what he was feeling with what I was saying. Then, in the quiet after the storm, he finally sighed, his shoulders dropping just a bit.
"Fine," he muttered.
Finally, Jacob sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. "I just hate seeing him like this. He's... not himself. And I don't know how to help him out." His voice softened, frustration still there but laced with helplessness.
I let out a slow breath, my hands uncrossing and dropping to my sides. "I know. I know, Jacob. But we have to let him work through it. And we need to make sure he doesn't feel alone in that."
Jacob left not too long after. As the day wore on and Seth hadn't come out of his room, my worries grew deeper. I couldn't sit still, pacing back and forth, my mind running circles around itself. Was he okay? Had something triggered him? I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right, and with every passing minute, my anxiety crept higher.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I reached for the house phone, my hand shaking slightly as I dialed Dr. Cohen's office. The phone rang, each tone amplifying the knot in my stomach.
When Dr. Cohen finally picked up, his voice calm and measured, it only made my worry worse.
I took a deep breath, my voice tight with concern. "Dr. Cohen, it's Leah... Seth hasn't come out of his room since he got home from the appointment."
There was a long pause before he spoke, his voice steady and reassuring. "Leah, it's completely normal for someone to feel the way Seth does after a difficult session. Therapy, especially in the early stages, can stir up a lot of emotions, some of which may be hard to process right away. It's not uncommon for people to withdraw or want to retreat inwardly to digest what they've uncovered. I can't speak specifically to what happened in the session, but from what you've described, it seems Seth is simply in the midst of a tough emotional process."
He paused again, giving me a moment to let the words sink in. "Every person handles this process differently, and it's important not to rush them. Some days will be harder than others. But I assure you, the fact that Seth is engaging in these sessions is a step forward. It's not always an easy road. He may not be ready to talk about it yet, and that's okay."
I exhaled slowly, feeling a slight release of tension in my chest, but there was still that heavy weight in my stomach. I needed more. I needed to understand how to help him through this.
Dr. Cohen's tone softened, but I could sense the urgency behind his words. "That said, I would encourage you to make sure Seth attends his next session. It's crucial to keep the momentum going, even when it feels like he wants to pull away. He might not see it now, but this is part of the healing process. You can support him by reminding him that he doesn't have to have all the answers right now."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure he could hear it. "I'll make sure he goes. I just don't want him to... shut down completely." My voice caught slightly at the thought, and I felt a lump in my throat.
"I understand," Dr. Cohen said gently. "You're doing great, Leah. It's clear that you care deeply for him, and that means more than anything. Just keep being there for him, and we'll take it one step at a time."
I let out a shaky breath, feeling a little lighter, but still uncertain. "Thank you, Dr. Cohen."
Before I could hang up, Dr. Cohen spoke again, his tone carrying a weight that made me pause.
"I'd also like to prescribe something to help with Seth's sleep. He's been having some difficulty, and I think it could help regulate his sleep patterns."
Sleep. I hadn't even realized Seth was still struggling with that. My mind raced. Was he still having trouble? Why didn't he say anything?
"What do you mean?" I asked carefully.
"It seems his sleep has been erratic—long hours in bed, but not always restful. Night terrors, restless sleep, that sort of thing. Hydroxyzine is a non-addictive antihistamine that can help ease anxiety-related insomnia. It might give him some relief and make it easier for him to get truly restorative sleep."
A sudden wave of guilt settled in my stomach. How had I missed this? "I... I didn't realize," I admitted softly. "Is it that bad?"
Dr. Cohen's voice remained steady but firm. "I can't go into specifics about what was discussed in session, but this should help. It's just a temporary aid to support him through this difficult time, not a long-term solution. Better sleep can make a significant difference in his overall well-being."
I still didn't fully understand, but if it could help Seth, I wasn't going to argue. "Okay... how often does he take it?"
"Only for this week, and not necessarily every night. Overuse can make it less effective. The prescription will likely be for four pills."
I hesitated. "Woah, Doc, graduation's right around the corner. Maybe he doesn't need to start anything until after?" I tried to sound lighthearted, but uncertainty edged my voice.
Dr. Cohen didn't miss a beat. "Leah, I understand your concern, but this isn't about delaying for convenience. If Seth is struggling now, waiting won't necessarily make things easier. Graduation will bring its own set of pressures. Giving him the option to use this when he needs it could help him navigate these next few weeks with a clearer mind and better rest."
His words settled over me, making sense in a way I wasn't sure I wanted to admit.
"I—" I hesitated, exhaling slowly. "I'm trying my best to be open-minded about this process," I admitted, my voice carrying the weight of uncertainty.
Dr. Cohen's tone remained steady, reassuring. "There are no such thing as silly questions."
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "Okay," I said, taking a deep breath, feeling the responsibility settle over me. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, Leah. You'll be able to pick up the prescription shortly—I'll send it over now. And remember, don't hesitate to reach out if you need anything else."
I hung up, my mind still spinning but, somehow, a little more at ease. At least now, I had something tangible I could do for Seth—making sure he got some rest and stuck with his sessions. It wasn't everything, but it was something.
I waited about an hour before heading to the pharmacy, choosing to go inside rather than using the drive-thru.
The pharmacist at the checkout wasn't the usual one. This one was a handsome blond. His chiseled face was set in a deep scowl as he glared at the computer screen, fingers tapping impatiently against the counter. Behind him, two other employees in white coats moved methodically through shelves lined with pill bottles, filling prescriptions in their little library of narcotics—benzos, and fuck all else.
He barely acknowledged me at first, too wrapped up in whatever was frustrating him.
I knocked lightly on the desk. "Picking up a prescription," I said casually.
"Name and date of birth?" he asked, finally shifting his attention away from the computer. His tone wasn't sharp, but there was an undercurrent of irritation—more at the machine than at me, it seemed.
"Clearwater," I said, then quickly recited Seth's birthdate.
His striking blue eyes flicked to my face, then down, briefly lingering on my neck. He nodded as if processing the information, his gaze lingering just a second too long.
"If you don't mind me asking," he said smoothly, his voice polite but with an edge I couldn't quite place, "where did you get that necklace?"
My fingers instinctively curled around the ring strung onto the necklace. "A very good friend gave it to me," I said, my voice softening slightly, a small grin tugging at my lips.
He nodded, considering me for a moment. "Good friend, huh?"
The way he said it wasn't casual. It was knowing, almost too knowing, like there was something else behind his words. It gave me pause.
I furrowed my brows slightly but nodded along, waiting for him to tell me if the damn script was ready or not.
"I just need your insurance card," he said, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I pulled out my wallet, yanking out the information and handing it to him. He took it with a brief brush of his fingers, his gaze flickering back to the screen, still processing the data. But there was something else—his eyes lingered on the necklace again, just for a second longer than necessary, before he returned to his work.
"This shouldn't take long," he said, scanning the details. "You can shop for a bit if you'd like."
I gave a forced, but polite smile as he handed me my card back. "Okay, thanks."
He hesitated for just a beat before adding, almost offhandedly, "Young people always wear their hearts on their sleeves. Makes them easy to read."
I blinked. The words weren't outright cruel, but they stuck with me, needling me in a way I couldn't quite shake. It felt like I'd just been called naïve without him actually saying the word.
Before I could respond, he looked back at his screen, already moving on as if the conversation had never happened.
"I'll call for you over the overhead speakers," he added smoothly, not missing a beat.
I turned to walk away, but a strange unease settled in my chest. Something about him felt... off. The comment lingered, nagging at me, but I shrugged it off as weird small talk.
Glancing back, I caught a glimpse of the name tag pinned to his coat.
Carlisle.
The rest of the name was too small to read.
..
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