𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃

you were late again. this was the third session you’d been late to. carl morck wasn’t angry, he was just- no. he was angry. what was he paying you for? some therapist you were. but at least you weren’t dr sonnernberg. she was a prick.

he swallowed the urge to roll his eyes for the millionth time as he sat in the waiting room, watching the seconds tick by slowly on the clock hung on the wall. the dull room was practically empty otherwise, although, therapy isn’t how most normal people spend their saturday mornings.

carl tapped his shoe on the carpeted floor, squeezing the tennis ball that you gave him last week. his eyes wander, and he contemplated ditching. he could go get a beer, be home in time to watch england v argentina.

but the moment he thinks about leaving, the door to your office opened. he let out a purposefully obvious huff, standing. he stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, quickly hiding the tennis ball. he didn’t want you to know he used it, that it helped, just like you said it would.

“… doctor.” he greeted dryly.