Kiara
"Cozy, isn't it?" he said, breaking the silence.
He sat across from me, legs crossed neatly, looking far too comfortable for someone who had practically ambushed me into a therapy session.
There was a quiet confidence about him now—less irritating, more… deliberate.
I glanced around again. "Cozy feels like an understatement," I admitted. "It's like someone told a treehouse to get a promotion."
A small laugh escaped him. "I'll take that as approval."
He leaned back, clearly pleased with himself. "I told you it was a nice place."
"You did," I conceded. "Your definition of 'nice' is dangerously vague, though."
His smile widened slightly, then his gaze drifted toward the trees around us.
"There's something about plants," he said thoughtfully. "Trees especially. They ground you. Slow your breathing. Remind you that not everything is rushing toward disaster."
The way he said it—calm, genuine—caught me off guard.
"You sound like you rehearsed that," I teased.
"I didn't," he replied lightly. "I just like green things. Green's my favorite color."
I raised a brow. "That explains the eyes."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Your eyes," I clarified, trying not to sound flustered. "They're… very green."
He studied me for a second, amused. "Observant."
"I try."
"Well," he continued smoothly, "plants help people feel alive. And I prefer my clients feeling alive."
"That's a low bar for a therapist," I muttered.
He laughed—an actual, unguarded laugh. It softened him instantly.
Then his posture shifted, straightening slightly. Professional mode activated.
"Alright," he said, extending his hand across the table. "Let's reset properly. I'm Alfred Winters."
I slipped my hand into his. His grip was warm, firm but not overpowering.
"As you already know," I replied, "Kiara Bradley."
His thumb shifted slightly as if he were about to say something, then he seemed to catch himself and released my hand.
"Nice to officially meet you, Ms. Bradley."
"Please don't call me that," I said immediately. "It sounds like I owe you taxes."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "Kiara, then."
"Much better."
He nodded once, satisfied, and leaned forward slightly. "So, Kiara. On a scale of one to catastrophic, how has your day been?"
I let out a humorless laugh. "Catastrophic feels generous."
"Let's hear it."
I folded my hands in my lap. "I woke up to my landlady banging on my door like she was the police. Apparently, I have one month to pay three months' rent or she's kicking me out."
"Kicking you?" he repeated carefully.
"Her words. Not mine."
He nodded slowly. "That's… stressful."
"That's not even the highlight," I continued. "I got fired today. No warning. Just a polite 'we're restructuring' and suddenly I'm unemployed." I gestured vaguely between us. "And then I got a replacement therapist who told me he was 'stuck' with me."
He winced slightly. "In my defense, that was poorly phrased."
"In your defense?" I gave him a look. "Bold move."
A faint smile touched his lips. "Noted."
He studied me more seriously now. "That's a lot to absorb in one day. Housing insecurity. Job loss. Sudden transition in care. Anyone would feel destabilized."
The clinical phrasing made me snort. "You say that like I'm a case study."
"You're not," he said calmly. "You're overwhelmed."
That landed differently.
He let a small silence settle—not uncomfortable, just intentional.
"And your parents?" he asked gently. "Where do they fit into today?"
My gaze dropped to my hands.
The air shifted.
The laughter from nearby tables felt distant, muted. My throat tightened, but no words formed. I stared at the wood grain beneath my fingers, tracing invisible lines.
Alfred didn't rush me. Didn't fill the space. Just waited.
After a few long seconds, he gave a small nod. "We don't have to go there yet."
Relief flickered across my face before I could hide it.
"Therapy isn't a race," he added quietly.
Before the silence could grow heavy again, he lifted a hand slightly.
I frowned. "What are you—"
A waiter appeared at our table.
Oh.
Alfred took the menu and handed it to me. "What would you like?"
I stared at the options, suddenly aware of his gaze again.
"I'm fine," I said quickly.
He didn't look at the menu. "Two fresh orange juices, please."
My head snapped up. "I said I'm fine."
He met my stare evenly. "You look dehydrated."
"I do not."
"You do."
"Are you diagnosing my hydration levels now?"
He didn't miss a beat. "Yes."
The waiter walked away, clearly entertained.
I folded my arms. "You're very confident for someone on probation."
"Probation?" he repeated.
"You said you're my therapist 'for now.' That sounds temporary."
He leaned back, unfazed. "Temporary doesn't mean ineffective."
I narrowed my eyes at him.
He held my gaze calmly, then added, "Trust me. You'll like the orange juice."
I sighed dramatically. "If I don't, I'm writing that in my file."
A slow grin spread across his face. "I look forward to reading it."
And annoyingly… I almost smiled back.