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“And that scares you,” he says matter-of-factly, lifting a hand to silence me when I try to deny his observation. “It’s written all over you.”

“It doesn’t scare me,” I insist. His eyebrows lift a fraction and I sigh. “Okay. Our growing connection terrifies me so damn much.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to mess it up.”

What I don’t share is that when I fall for someone, I fall hard. I don’t know how to do casual once someone gets under my skin the way Peyton has. One-night stands and random hookups are different because they never go deeper than the surface.

The last time I let myself imagine a future with someone, it slipped through my fingers. Now, months later, I have a baby sleeping down the hall, a sister who’s missing, and a shop to run. In the midst of all that, I find myself wanting to explore whatever this is between Peyton and me. That’s the main problem; wanting things has never been safe for me. The second I start picturing her as a permanent part of my life, panic creeps in. Because if I let myself believe in that kind of future and it falls apart too, I honestly don’t know if I have enough left in me to survive it again.

Dr. Patel’s pen taps once against his notebook. “That’s a reasonable concern. But it also sounds like you’re already building a story where you are the problem. Does Peyton know you’re in therapy?” I nod and he adds, “How do you feel about telling her you have feelings for her?”

“I can’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.” When I clench my jaw in response, he continues, “You’re waiting until the annulment is final, I know. But Oliver, you’re allowed to want something good. I know it sounds like a cliche, but it’s the truth. You deserve all the good things like any other person does.”

The overused words hit me harder than they should. I stare at him, fighting the sting gathering behind my eyes. If I try to speak, I might need those damn tissues. I hate how close I am to crying over something belonging to a motivational poster. Maybe that's the problem with clichés. They only sound hollow until someone says them at the exact moment you need to hear them.

I force myself to get my breathing under control. Dr. Patel doesn't rush to fill the silence. He waits, like he knows there isn't anything left for me to say. I tuck the feeling away the only way I know how. It's not gone, just shelved for another day.

We continue to talk about work and other mundane things after. After thirty minutes, Dr. Patel glances at the clock. “We’ll end here today. Before you go, I have one last question. What do you need right now?”

“Sleep.”

He smiles faintly. “Besides that.”

I rub a hand over the back of my neck again, staring at the carpet like the answer might be woven into the design. There are a hundred answers. A sister who comes home. A future that doesn't fall apart. A brain that stops waiting for the next disaster. The courage to believe that my newfound happiness isn't destined to slip through my fingers.

“Clarity and a little patience couldn’t hurt,” I finally say.

“Then I hope you get what you need. Take care of yourself, Ollie,” he says before adding, “And try to get some sleep.”

I chuckle, but neither of us believes lack of sleep is the real problem here. Still, as I step out of his office and pull the door shut behind me, the pressure in my chest feels a little less suffocating.

A Post-it note in Peyton’s neat handwriting waits for me on the kitchen counter when I get home: Tilly is down for a nap. I'm in the nursery finishing the mural if you need me. P x

The x at the end does stupid things to my insides. I've spent days convincing myself not to read too much into every glance, every laugh and every accidental brush of her hand. Apparently I can add punctuation to that list now. It's probably automatic for her. Something she scribbles without thinking. My heart, on the other hand, reacts like she handed it a handwritten confession.

I walk to the nursery and peek in. Peyton stands in front of the wall with a brush in hand, her hair clipped back and headphones over her ears. Late afternoon light spills through the window behind her, turning the edges of her hair the color of silver moonlight. She’s wearing one of my old band shirts again, sleeves rolled up past her elbows and specks of paint dotting her legs in shorts.

I move slowly, trying not to spook her. My shadow stretches across the wall and she glances over her shoulder. A breathtaking smile spreads across her face the second she sees me, softening every feature. Dr. Patel would probably have a field day watching how instantly my entire body relaxes around her.

“How was therapy?” Peyton asks.

I could say fine or nothing at all, but I’m tired of being vague. “It was a lot,” I admit.

Her smile fades as she removes her headphones without taking her eyes off me, giving me her full attention. “Want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later. Right now, I just need something to do with my hands. I’m going to head to my studio.”

Because clay has always been easier than feelings. If I press too hard, I can reshape whatever I’m making, wedging it back together before starting again. People don't work like that. Hearts definitely don't.

Her eyes brighten. “Can I join you?”

She beams before I can answer, looking pleased by the idea. No one has ever looked excited about spending an afternoon in my studio with me.

“Sure,” I manage to say.