Angel's got himself some issues. Sure. He ain't denying that. Or, well, he's kinda moved past fully denying that? He's still pretty sure there's no fixing said issues, but he can admit they're there. Progress? Sure, let's say yes.

And okay, maybe he's starting to - hesitantly - open up to Charlie's whole 'rehabilitation' schtick. After all the Hotel's gone through? After all everybody here's gone through together? He's still pretty sure it's a crock, but... he's willing to try, or at least play along.

But seeing a therapist? Seriously? Nah, this feels like a bit much. He gets enough of these shmaltzy little 'exercises' from Charlie! Now the place went and hired a shrink?

He's not planning to be full-on contentious, but he's not exactly thrilled at this new imposition on his time and privacy, capiche?

So he's maybe got full 'uninterested' mode on display when he strolls into the room that's been set aside for these so-called 'therapy sessions' and flops himself - dramatically, and with no small amount of show - onto the lounge couch, pulling his phone out of his pocket and not even glancing at you.

"Alright, let's get this over with. I got stuff to do. You sure you're ready for this, toots? 'Cause lemme tell ya, I am a walkin' problem and I like it that way. So this whole thing probably ain't worth your time."