Emma's Pov
The office felt colder than usual.
Maybe it was the rain outside, streaking down the tall windows, soft and relentless. Or maybe it was because of the silence, the kind that wasn't just quiet but thick, suffocating.
Damian sat across from me, as he always did, the same perfect posture, the same unreadable face.
He looked tired though. The tension tucked around the edges of his jaw, shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
I kept my gaze on my notepad, pretending to review the same sentence for the third time.
Our sessions had been like this all week. Professional and distant.
And that should've been a good thing. It was what I'd wanted, the boundaries, balance, control. But sitting here, listening to the slow ticking of the clock on the wall, I wasn't sure if it was control I felt… or loss.
"Miss Lawson?" Damian's voice broke the silence.
I looked up. "Yes?"
He leaned back slightly, fingers drumming once against his thigh before stilling. "You seem distracted today."
I forced a smile. "Long night, that's all."
He nodded, though his eyes lingered on me like he didn't believe a word. "Anything you'd like to talk about?"
"No," I said too quickly. "I'm fine."
He tilted his head slightly. "Fine," he repeated, the word almost bitter. "You've said that in every session this week."
I blinked. "Is that a problem?"
"It's… unusual," he admitted. "You're usually more..."
"Vocal?" I supplied.
He gave a faint, humorless laugh. "Something like that."
The silence returned, heavier this time. The rain pressed harder against the glass, filling the space where words refused to live.
I scribbled something meaningless on the page. "We can continue where we left off," I said quietly. "You were discussing your recent progress with….."
"I can't do this anymore."
My pen froze mid-word. Slowly, I looked up. Damian wasn't looking at me this time. He was staring at the floor, jaw clenched, fists balled on his knees.
"Do what?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
"This." He gestured between us, sharp and frustrated. "This… silence. This distance. Pretending like it doesn't bother me."
I sat back, heart kicking once, hard. "Damian..."
He cut in, voice low but trembling with restraint. "You barely look at me now. You speak to me like I'm a stranger and I know I asked for boundaries, I know that, but this...." He exhaled harshly, shaking his head. "This isn't working."
I swallowed, my throat dry. "We agreed to keep things professional."
"Yes," he said. "But being professional doesn't mean pretending the other person doesn't exist."
"I'm not pretending."
He looked up then, and something in his eyes made my breath falter. "Aren't you?"
For a moment, neither of us moved. The rain blurred the city skyline behind him, soft and gray. My pulse felt too loud in the silence.
I forced myself to find my voice. "You wanted space," I said quietly. "You said things were getting complicated..."
"They are complicated," he said, interrupting again. "But ignoring it doesn't make it disappear."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You think I don't notice how you flinch when I get too close? How you choose your words like they might explode if you say the wrong one? I feel it, Emma. Every second of it."
I gripped my pen tighter. "This isn't about what you feel. It's about what's necessary."
His eyes darkened. "Necessary for who?"
"For both of us."
He gave a short, sharp laugh that held no humor. "You're lying to yourself."
My heart stuttered. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he said, standing abruptly. "You keep pretending this is just about work, but you and I both know it's not."
I stood too, defensive before I could stop myself. "You're out of line."
He took a step closer. "Am I? Because the last time I checked, I'm not the one who's been avoiding eye contact for days. Or jumping at every message that comes to your phone."
My stomach dropped. "What does that mean?"
He hesitated for a split second, just long enough to make me wonder if he knew about the text. Then he exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair. "It means I notice things, Emma. Even when I shouldn't."
I tried to steady my breathing. "You're projecting."
He laughed again, quieter this time. "You really think so?"
"Yes."
He looked at me then. "You think I don't care but I do. Too much. And that's the problem."
The words hit like a spark in dry air.
I froze. "Damian…"
He shook his head, pacing a few steps away. "I've tried to stay detached. I've tried to keep this professional. But every time you walk into this room, it's like..." He stopped himself, closing his eyes. "It's like I forget how to breathe properly."
My chest ached, torn between disbelief and something dangerously close to recognition.
"You can't say things like that," I whispered.
"Why not?" he asked, his voice rough. "You think I don't know how wrong it is? You think I don't hate myself for it?" He looked at me again, eyes full of the same storm I'd been trying to escape all week. "But I can't keep pretending that nothing's there."
The air between us crackled. I could feel the pull.
"Damian, this—this isn't" I started, but he cut me off.
"I know," he said quickly. "I know it's not allowed. I know I shouldn't even be saying this. But you're not just my therapist anymore, and we both know it."
The words stole the ground from under me.
My heartbeat echoed in my ears. "We need to end this session," I said quietly.
He didn't move. "If that's what you want."
"It's what's right."
He nodded once, jaw tight, the muscle there ticking. "Fine."
I gathered my notes with shaking hands, but before I could move, he spoke again, softer this time.
"I'm not trying to make this harder for you," he said. "I just can't keep pretending I don't care."
I looked up, and for a moment, I forgot how to speak. There was no arrogance in his voice now, no sharp edge. Just honesty.
And that was somehow worse.
"Damian…" I whispered, his name feeling too heavy on my tongue.
He took a step back, forcing a small, strained smile. "Don't worry. I'll keep things professional. You deserve that."
Then he turned toward the window, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the rain.
I hesitated, heart lodged somewhere between relief and pain. Then I picked up my bag and walked toward the door.
But before I could leave, he spoke again, without turning around.
"Who texted you?"
I froze.
"What?"
He finally looked at me, eyes sharp, cutting through the dim light. "The message you got at the café."
My blood ran cold. "How do you know about that?"
His jaw tightened. "Because you weren't the only one who got it."
My breath caught in my throat.
"What do you mean?" I asked, but he didn't answer.
He just stared at me, the storm in his eyes darker than I'd ever seen it.
And that's when I realized...
whatever line we'd been pretending not to cross, it wasn't the only danger between us anymore.