His hand stayed pressed to his own chest, but the rhythm under his palm was his own now—ragged, hungry. He could feel the space between them like a physical thing, a gap he was terrified to cross and more terrified to leave open. The words caught in his throat, scraping against something raw. He didn't look at her. Couldn't. If he met those gray eyes he'd lose whatever thread he was still holding.
"I need you to tell me what to do." The words came out rough, scraped from somewhere deep. He felt them hollow him out, leave him bare and shaking in the lamplight. His hand dropped from his chest, landed on his thigh, fingers curled against the denim.
She didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched, and he felt it pressing against his ribs, testing the gaps in his armor. When she finally spoke, her voice carried that Southern softening on the vowels, unhurried, deliberate. "Tell me what you need from me, Noah."
His jaw tightened. The question was a mirror, and he hated what he saw in it. "I don't know how to do this," he said, and the admission scraped his throat raw. "I don't know how to let someone—" He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "I don't know how to just... hand it over."
"Hand what over?" she asked, soft as a blade.
He laughed, bitter and wrong. "Everything. The whole goddamn mess." His hands were trembling now, and he pressed them flat against his thighs to still them. "The anger. The noise. The part of me that wants to put my fist through a wall every time I feel something."
She uncrossed her legs, slow, and leaned forward. The leather of her chair creaked once, then settled. "And what would happen if you handed it over?"
"I don't know." His voice cracked. "That's the problem. I don't know what's left."
Adrienne rose from her chair in one fluid motion. She crossed the space between them without hurry, and when she stopped, she was standing in front of him, close enough that he could smell the jasmine on her skin. She didn't touch him. Just stood there, patient as stone, her gray eyes holding him in the dim light.
"You're afraid," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah." The word came out barely a whisper.
She lowered herself slowly, one knee on the floor in front of him, then the other, until she was kneeling at his feet. Her hands rested on her thighs, palms open, an offering. "I'm going to ask you to trust me, Noah. Not because I've earned it—but because I'm asking. And when you're ready, I need you to say it out loud."
The lamplight caught the silver pendant at her throat. He watched it rise and fall with her breathing, steady, unhurried. His own pulse hammered against his ribs, wild and desperate. The words sat in his throat, heavy as stones. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I trust you." The words came out raw, scraped clean of everything but truth. His hands were still trembling, but he didn't look away. "I trust you. Now tell me what to do."
"Close your eyes, Noah."
The instruction landed like a stone in still water. He opened his mouth—to question, to deflect, to buy himself another second—but the words died before they reached his throat. She was still kneeling at his feet, her gray eyes holding his, patient and unmoving. Waiting. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and his eyelids dropped.
The dark was immediate. Complete. He felt the lamplight as a warm pressure against his lids, the way you feel a fire without looking at it. The leather of the chair creaked once as he settled deeper into it, his hands still pressed flat against his thighs. Without sight, every other sense sharpened: the whisper of her breathing, the faint rustle of silk as she shifted her weight, the smell of jasmine and something darker beneath it.
"Good." Her voice came from below him, softer than he'd expected. The Southern softening on the vowel made it feel like a hand at his cheek. "Now I need you to keep them closed until I tell you to open them. Can you do that?"
His jaw tightened. Three seconds in and already he wanted to look, to check, to know what she was doing. The impulse sat hot in his chest, a wire pulled taut. He nodded instead, the motion small, and felt her hand settle on his knee. Light. Barely there. A reminder that she was still with him.
"Breathe," she said. Not a suggestion. A command wrapped in velvet. His chest rose, fell, rose again. The rhythm felt wrong at first—too fast, too shallow—but he let it slow, let her presence anchor him in the dark. Her thumb traced a slow arc across the ridge of his kneecap, once, twice, a steady counterpoint to his pulse.
A long silence stretched between them. He felt it press against his skin like the weight of water at depth. The room was too quiet now—no traffic, no clock, nothing but her breathing and his, the two of them tangled in the dark. His hands trembled against his thighs, and he felt her rise—the shift of air, the whisper of her blouse as she stood over him.
"You asked me to tell you what to do." Her voice came from somewhere above him now, close, intimate. He felt the warmth of her body near his shoulder but she didn't touch him there. "This is the first thing. You stay in the dark until I tell you otherwise. You let me hold the shape of this room. You let me be your eyes."
He swallowed. The words sat in his throat, heavy and raw. His fingers curled into his palms, nails biting into calloused skin, and he forced them flat again. Open. Surrendered. "How long?" The question came out rough, scraped clean of anything but need.
"As long as it takes." Her hand found his, lifted it from his thigh, and pressed his palm flat against her chest. Silk beneath his fingers. The steady thrum of her heartbeat, unhurried, unbreakable. "You're still here. You're still breathing. That's enough for now."
In the dark, with her heartbeat under his palm and her voice the only thread, he felt something crack open in his chest. Not the rage, not the noise—something older, softer, something he'd buried so deep he'd forgotten it was there. A sound escaped him, not quite a sob, not quite a word. Her hand covered his, pressed it harder against her sternum, and she said nothing. The silence held him, and for the first time, he let it.
Her fingers found his jaw. The touch was so light he barely registered it—a whisper across his skin, tracing the hard line from his ear to the hinge of his chin. He held his breath, afraid that if he moved, if he so much as shifted, she would stop. She didn't. Her thumb swept over his cheekbone, slow and deliberate, and his lips parted on an exhale he didn't know he'd been holding.
His eyes were still closed. The dark was warm now, familiar, and her touch was the only thing moving through it. He realized his hands had found her knees—not gripping, just resting there, palms open against the silk of her trousers. She didn't pull away. Didn't tell him to move them. Her fingers traced the bridge of his nose, the arch of his brow, like she was reading something written just beneath his skin.
"You're doing so well, Noah." Her voice was low, unhurried, the Southern softening curling around his name. A sound caught in his throat—strangled, raw. He didn't know what to do with the praise. It sat in his chest like a stone he couldn't swallow.
Her hand stilled. Then her palm pressed flat against his cheek, warm and certain, and he leaned into it without thinking. His stubble scraped against her skin and he felt her exhale—a soft release, barely there, the first sound she'd made that wasn't measured. He held his breath again, waiting for her to pull back. She didn't.
"Open your eyes, Noah." Her thumb traced the slope of his cheekbone one last time before her hand fell to his shoulder. His lids lifted slow. The afternoon light had shifted, long gold bars slanting across the floor, catching the dust motes suspended in the air. She was still kneeling in front of him, close enough that he could see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the tiny chip in her red lipstick he'd never noticed before.
His hands were still on her knees. He looked down at them—his scarred knuckles against the dark silk—and something in his chest cracked a little wider. He lifted them away, placed them on his own thighs. The denim was warm under his palms. Real. Grounded.
"I don't know what happens now," he said. The words came out rough, scraped clean of everything but truth. His throat closed around the next sentence, but he forced it out anyway. "I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. Or do. I just—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I just know I don't want to go back to how it was."
Her gray eyes held his, steady as stone. The silver pendant at her throat caught the light, a small flash of gold, and then settled. "You don't have to know," she said. "That's what this is for. You stay here, in the not-knowing. You let it be uncomfortable. And you keep showing up."
His hands trembled against his thighs. He pressed them flat, once, then let them relax. "How do I do that?"
"You already are."
She rose, slow, her knees creaking softly as she stood. The space where she'd been felt empty, cold, but she didn't move away—just settled back into her chair across from him, crossing her legs, folding her hands in her lap. The lamplight caught her face, soft and unreadable. He watched her, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
His hand drifted to his own chest. Beneath his palm, his heartbeat was slower now. Still heavy. Still carrying the weight of everything he'd brought into this room. But beneath that, something else—a quiet rhythm, patient and small, waiting to see if he would stay long enough to hear it.
His throat worked. The words sat there, heavy and hot, pressing against the back of his teeth. He watched her cross her legs, the silk of her blouse catching the light, the silver pendant settling against her collarbone. His hands were still on his thighs, palms open, and he realized he was waiting—for what, he didn't know. Permission. A sign. Something that told him he wasn't stepping into a place he wasn't allowed.
"Can I ask you something?" The question came out rough, scraped raw. He didn't recognize his own voice.
Adrienne's head tilted, a fraction of an inch. Her gray eyes held his, unblinking, and the silence stretched long enough that he felt it press against his chest like a weight. "You can ask me anything, Noah."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The words tangled in his throat, and he pressed his palm flat against his sternum, feeling his heartbeat under the fabric of his hoodie. Still fast. Still listening. "Why do you do this?"
"This?"
"This." He gestured vaguely—at the room, at her, at the space between them. "This... thing you do. The kneeling. The touching. The—" He stopped. Swallowed. "The way you look at me like you already know everything I'm going to say before I say it."
Her lips curved, just slightly. Not a smile—something softer, something that might have been recognition. "You think I know everything?"
"I think you know more than you let on." His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked down at his hands. The scarred knuckles. The split skin. "I think you've done this before. With other people. And I think—" He stopped again, his jaw working. "I think I'm not the first broken thing you've fixed."
The word hung in the air between them. Broken. He felt it land like a stone, heavy and final, and something in his chest tightened. He waited for her to deny it, to offer comfort, to tell him he wasn't broken—because that's what people did, wasn't it? They softened the blow. They made it bearable.
She didn't.
"You're right," Adrienne said. Her voice was low, unhurried, the Southern softening curling around the words like honey. "You're not the first. And you won't be the last."
He flinched. The words hit him square in the chest, and he felt something crack—not break, but crack, a hairline fracture in the armor he'd been holding together with spit and will. His hands trembled against his thighs, and he pressed them flat, once, hard enough to feel the sting.
"But that doesn't mean what we're doing here isn't real." She leaned forward, just slightly, her elbows resting on her knees. The silver pendant swung, caught the light, settled. "You asked me why I do this. Do you want the truth?"
He nodded. Couldn't speak. His throat was too tight, the words lodged somewhere behind his breastbone.
"Because I understand what it means to carry something you can't put down. To wake up every morning with a weight in your chest that you can't name, can't fight, can't outrun." Her gray eyes held his, steady and unblinking. "I don't fix people, Noah. I give them somewhere to set the weight down. The rest is up to them."
The room was silent. A bar of gold light stretched across the floor, catching the dust motes suspended in the air. He watched them drift, slow and aimless, and felt something shift in his chest—not the rage, not the noise, but something beneath it. Something that had been waiting.
"Who set yours down?" The question came out before he could stop it. His voice was barely a whisper, raw and stripped of everything but need. "The weight. Who helped you put it down?"
Adrienne's expression didn't change. But something flickered in her eyes—a shadow, a door closing, a moment of recognition. She held his gaze for a long, slow breath, and then she rose from her chair. Crossed to the window. Stood with her back to him, the light catching the edge of her silhouette, her hands clasped behind her.
The silence stretched. He felt it press against his skin, tight and waiting, and he didn't break it. He held his breath, his hands still pressed flat against his thighs, and waited for her to speak.