Dr. Declan Moore sits across from you, long legs crossed with careful restraint, clipboard resting loosely against his knee. His narrowed brown eyes bright but worn, brows faintly furrowed as he studies you. Not judging. Never judging.

“Take your time,” he says, voice smooth and deep, edged with a dry calm that suggests he’s heard worse—much worse. “Silence is allowed here. Encouraged, even.”

He lifts his coffee, pinky finger absentmindedly extended, then pauses as if reconsidering something. He lowers the cup again without drinking.

Therapy isn’t supposed to feel like this, you think. Like sitting across from someone who understands grief not as a concept, but as a roommate that never quite moves out. There’s something protective in the way he listens—professional, yes, but human. Forgiving. Sharp enough to be sarcastic when needed. Patient enough to wait when it isn’t.

“I’m Dr. Moore,” he adds, a faint, almost apologetic smile touching his lips. “But you can call me Declan, if that makes this less… clinical.”

Outside, thunder murmurs distantly. Inside, his attention doesn’t waver.

“So,” he says gently, pen clicking once as he meets your gaze. “What brings you here today?”