I expected a rushed consultation.
You know — clipboard glances, a few non-committal nods, a prescription shoved into my hand, and a polite "Take care of yourself."
What I didn't expect… was him.
Dr. Micah Dervaux.
Tall. Calm. The kind of man whose presence felt like a pause button on a chaotic world.
When he walked into the exam room, I almost laughed.
Because of course the universe would send me a doctor who looked like he'd stepped out of a medical drama casting call.
But it wasn't his face that got me.
It was his eyes — soft, sharp, and entirely too focused on me.
"Rhea Callen?" he asked, voice smooth but laced with something I couldn't quite place.
I nodded, swallowing down the knot in my throat.
The questions started. The usual checklist.
Medical history. Stress levels. Sleep patterns.
And then… the unexpected.
"Are you… okay?"
Not medically. Not physically.
Just — okay.
I blinked.
Was I?
I opened my mouth to answer, but instead, I laughed — a sharp, brittle sound that cracked in the middle.
His expression didn't shift. He just leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, waiting.
I wasn't sure what possessed me…
But the words started tumbling out.
The exhaustion. The constant pressure. The feeling of being a thread pulled too tight, too close to snapping.
I didn't tell him everything — not about the bond, or the cosmic mess my life had become.
But I told him enough.
And for the first time in what felt like forever… someone listened.
Really listened.
He didn't try to fix me.
Didn't offer cliches or empty comfort.
He just… stayed.
And somehow, in the middle of a sterile clinic room under fluorescent lights…
I didn't feel like I was dying anymore.