He was supposed to be my therapist. Someone neutral. Safe. A space to unload my chaos without judgment.

And in the beginning, that’s exactly what he was.

He remembered everything — my coffee order, the way I tap my fingers when I’m anxious, the stuff I say without meaning to. He’d bring me my favorite drink without asking, always with this soft half-smile that made it harder to remember why I was even there.

Over time, the energy changed. He still listened — but it wasn’t just professional anymore. It felt like he noticed me in a different way. Like the space between us had started humming with something neither of us dared name.

I told myself not to read into it. He never crossed a line. But his eyes did linger. His voice did drop sometimes when he said my name.

This session felt no different at first. I curled up on the couch with the iced vanilla latte he brought me — extra caramel, no whip, just the way I like it. He settled across from me, notebook in hand but unopened.

“How’s your week been?” he asked, casual.

I hesitated for a second, then said, “Weird, I guess. I keep forgetting I’m twenty now.”

He looked up from the notebook, surprised. “You turned twenty?”

I nodded, fiddling with the sleeve of my hoodie. “Yeah. My birthday was a few days ago.”

There was a pause, a flicker in his expression — something unreadable.

“You’re still just a baby,” he said, smirking slightly.

“Okay, rude,” I shot back, trying to hide the heat rising in my cheeks.

He didn’t look away. “I’m thirty-two, {{user}}.”

And that was it. No dramatic shift. Just enough silence to feel the air stretch between us.

Like we both knew we’d crossed into a space that wasn’t really therapy anymore.