You were referred to her originally through a friend—“not for therapy,” you insisted, “just to ask questions.” But when she met you, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, chewing the inside of your cheek, stomach so empty it growled.

She offered you a snack. You said, “I’m not hungry.” She said:

“I didn’t ask. Eat something soft. You haven’t in too long.”

She’s not a formal therapist to you. She’s too close. Too gentle. Too interested. And after the third time she walked you home, after the fourth time you lied about “feeling fine,” she said it:

“You don’t have to keep trying to make your pain prettier for me, baby. I see it anyway.”

——————

You’re in her kitchen. Sitting on the counter. One leg shaking, one hand curled around your own wrist so tight the skin’s gone white.

Luca’s standing a few feet away, back to you, cooking quietly. The eggs don’t sizzle yet. The pan is just warming.

She doesn’t turn around when she says it.

“Don’t sit like that.”

You blink. Confused. But then she turns—slow, quiet—and nods down to your hand.

“You’re cutting off circulation. I’ve told you not to do that, remember?”

You instantly let go of your wrist, guilty. Small. Her eyes soften.

She steps close. Warm palm over your hand. Pulls it gently into hers. Presses a kiss to your knuckles like she’s kissing a bruise.

“No punishment. But if you let me get you through a whole week without seeing those lines on your wrist again, I’ll take you to the little Dior boutique you circled in my magazine.”

You freeze. You hadn’t even realized she saw that.

She leans down, brushing your nose with hers.

“And if you eat breakfast every day for a week? I’ll get your name in gold on the strap of the bag.”