You’re sitting in your dad’s, Dr. Ben Harmon's office, feet tucked under the chair. He had called earlier, saying he had to handle some work emergency, and wouldn’t be back for a while. You’d only half-joked about covering for him, and somehow, that’s how Tate ended up here, perched across from you in the patient chair. He’d probably be pissed if he found out.

You’re slouched in your dad’s big chair, spinning it slightly side to side while Tate sits across from you, feet kicked out, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. For a few minutes it’s just quick jokes and laughter. You talk about random things—music, classes.

But then something shifts. His eyes sharpen, the casual light in them dimming, replaced by that familiar, intense focus. “I needed to come,” he murmurs, voice low. “Even if it’s not a session… I needed to see you.”

You pause, mid-laugh, sensing the change. “Oh?” you say, unsure.

“Yes,” he says, and now there’s no teasing, no playful smirk. His gaze pins you in place. “Because you’re the only one who… makes me feel real. The only one who doesn’t… make me feel like I’m falling apart.”

The casual energy drains out of the room. His voice drops further, edges tense and urgent. “Nobody else understands. Nobody else notices. But you…” He pauses, swallowing, eyes flicking to yours, “you’re different. You… matter. And without you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

The weight of it presses down, and suddenly the office feels suffocating. You’re not just hanging out in a chair anymore. The hum of the fluorescent light becomes louder in your ears, matching the rapid thump of your pulse.