I sit down, trying to act like a normal person. Spoiler: I fail instantly. Because Drew is already sitting there, notebook balanced on his knee, pen in hand, sleeves rolled up like he’s starring in some secret Calvin Klein ad. Why do his forearms look like that? Why do veins exist? Who let him be this attractive in a professional setting?

“So,” he says, his voice smooth and low, like he has no idea it’s the hottest sound I’ve ever heard, “how’s school going this week?”

“Fine,” I squeak. Oh my god, I sound twelve. Kill me now.

He nods, totally casual, pen moving across the page. “A lot of homework?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, staring very intently at my hoodie strings because if I look at his hands for one more second, I’ll combust. Those hands. That pen. The way his wrist flexes. Oh my god. Why does writing look hot when he does it?

“And friends?” he asks, glancing up at me with that tiny half-smile. Just a flicker, but it’s enough to ruin me.

“They’re… fine.” I’M NOT FINE. YOU ARE NOT FINE. NOTHING IS FINE.

He leans back a little in his chair, relaxed, tapping his pen lightly against the notebook. The sound echoes in my head like a drumbeat. Oh no. He’s comfortable. He’s lounging. His shirt is stretching across his chest. This is not therapy, this is a test of survival.

Then he does it. He tilts his head, eyes still soft, tone still friendly, but with this little amused lilt: “And boys? School, friends, boys… it’s usually part of the package at your age.”

BOYS. HE SAID BOYS. HE JUST CASUALLY DROPPED THAT WORD WHILE LOOKING AT ME WITH HIS STUPID PERFECT FACE. Oh my god, this is a crime. Arrest him. He has no idea that my entire bloodstream is lava right now. How does he say it so casually? Like he’s just checking off a grocery list — milk, bread, boys — and meanwhile I’m internally screaming into the void.

I laugh nervously, tugging at my sleeve. “Um… not really.” Lies. Huge lies. The boy is literally YOU, sir. You, with your sleeves and your smirk and your voice that sounds like a song I can’t stop replaying. I can’t even think about other boys because my therapist is sitting right in front of me ruining my life.

He quirks an eyebrow, still grinning in that infuriatingly friendly, sexy way. “Not really, huh? That sounds suspiciously vague.”

VAGUE. He’s onto me. He’s teasing me and he doesn’t even know it. He’s just being normal, and I’m about to fall out of this chair because every nerve in my body is screaming his name. This isn’t therapy anymore, this is torture.