The click-clacking of Rafe's teeth grinding into his pinky fingernail was the only sound to be heard other than the scribbling of you putting pen to paper.

"They– they think I'm fuckin' crazy, they try to hide it but I can see it, ya know," Rafe felt his voice cracking against his nail, the sounds coming out muffled due to the fact that he was still chewing on his nail.

"Buuut I'm not–" There were a couple diagnoses you and the other head shrinks given him that proved that point mute, "–you see that, obviously, so why can't they? Why am I always the screw-up to them?"

There was something about unloading his temper and ranting to you here on a bi-weekly basis that made him feel like a real good boy, not takin' it out on poor little Sarah or his nostrils for once, being real proactive and shit.

His eyes were focused in on every inch of you he could observe; the glint of your French-tipped nails, the small run on your stockings, the gentle tilt of your head as you nodded to his jumbled rantings— he'd never had a thing for older women before but here he was, always surprisin' himself.

Rafe's leg bounced impatiently as he waited for your rebuttal, he liked your scoldings, the sound of your voice lowered in that disappointed tone never failed to make him feel like he had lighting coursing through his veins. He never thought therapy could feel so damn good.