The clock ticked softly, filling the quiet room. You sat on the couch, fidgeting with your sleeve, unable to meet Kethan Lorne’s gaze. He was young—27, you’d learned—and far too calm for someone who spent his days untangling other people’s messes.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, but he didn’t rush you. He just watched, his notebook untouched on his lap, waiting.

Finally, his deep voice broke the stillness. “It’s alright, sweetheart...” he said gently, his tone steady and patient. “We have time.”