Chapter Forty: The Offer
The hospital's night entrance was a pocket of sterile light in the dark velvet of the city. The silence after the emotional storm of Lina's room was jarring, filled only by the distant hum of generators and the whisper of Amaya's own breath fogging in the cool air. She fumbled for her phone to call a cab, her fingers numb, her mind still back in the soft lamplight, holding a sleeping child.
The vibration of an engine, smooth and expensive, pulled her gaze from her screen. A sleek, dark sedan glided to a stop at the curb directly before her. The passenger window descended silently.
Aris sat behind the wheel, his face illuminated by the dashboard's soft glow. He looked as tired as she felt, the sharp angles of his face softened by shadows, but his eyes were alert. They scanned her—the slightly rumpled blouse, the absence of her usual professional composure, the lingering sheen of unshed tears she hadn't fully blinked away.
"It's late," he stated, his voice low, cutting through the quiet. "The hospital shuttle stopped running an hour ago. Cab service is unreliable at this hour in this area."
Amaya straightened, clutching her bag like a shield. The emotional rawness Lina had exposed made his presence feel like an intrusion, a return to a colder, more complicated reality. "I'll manage, Dr. Rowon. Thank you."
She turned back to her phone, searching for the ride-share app with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy.
"Get in." It wasn't a request. It was the same tone he used to issue clinical directives—expecting compliance based on irrefutable logic. "It's not safe. And you're in no state to be standing alone on a street corner at midnight."
The presumption—the clinical assessment of her 'state'—ignited a spark in her exhaustion. "I'm perfectly fine. And my safety, or my state, is not your concern. Our professional relationship doesn't extend to chauffeur services."
He didn't flinch. "It's raining three blocks from here. You don't have a coat. Your building is a forty-minute drive in the opposite direction from mine. The detour is negligible. This is an inefficient waste of time and an unnecessary risk. Get in the car, Amaya."
He used her name. Not 'Dr. Snow.' It was a tactical shift, a brief, deliberate departure from protocol that felt more disarming than his usual coldness.
Before she could formulate another refusal, a fine, cold mist began to drift from the sky, beading on her hair and lashes. He was right about the rain. A distant rumble of thunder underscored his point about safety.
A war waged inside her—pride, resentment, and a bone-deep weariness that just wanted to be home. The thought of waiting in the damp for an unknown car, of making stilted small talk with a stranger, was suddenly unbearable.
With a tense, resigned sigh, she yanked open the passenger door and slid into the car. The interior was immaculate, smelling of clean leather and his faint, familiar scent. The door closed with a hushed, solid thunk, sealing them in a tense, intimate capsule.
"Seatbelt," he said, his eyes on the road as he pulled away from the curb.
She clicked it in place, staring rigidly out the window as the hospital retreated behind them. The silence was thick, charged with the memory of their last encounter in his office—her shouting, him freezing her out. The gentle hum of the engine was the only sound.
They drove for several blocks through the slick, empty streets. The rain picked up, pattering against the windshield, the wipers sweeping it away with a rhythmic swish-thump.
"The Cho girl," he said abruptly, not looking at her. "Lina. Dr. Elna informs me you've made progress."
It was a professional overture. A safe topic. Yet, coming from him, it felt like a violation. Lina was hers. Her secret, silent world. She didn't want his clinical analysis touching it.
"Some," she replied, her voice tight. "It's slow."
"Non-verbal engagement is a significant breakthrough from her presentation. Your method… appears effective." The praise, delivered in that flat, assessing tone, was somehow worse than criticism.
"It's not a 'method,'" she said, a defensive edge creeping in. "It's just being human with her."
He was silent for a moment. "Humanity is often the variable most poorly controlled for in clinical settings. Its effects are difficult to quantify."
"Not everything needs to be quantified," she shot back, the weariness making her reckless. "Some things just need to be felt."
Another stretch of silence, filled only by the rain and the engine. The city lights blurred past, streaks of gold on wet black.
"Rihan likes yellow," he said, so quietly she almost didn't hear it over the wipers.
The statement was so utterly unexpected, so personal and disarming, that her breath caught. She turned her head slightly to look at him. His profile was stern, his focus on the road absolute, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the steering wheel.
"He has a yellow blanket. An old one. He won't sleep without it." Aris paused, as if weighing the risk of each word. "It's the only thing he's ever shown a… a consistent preference for. Color. Texture. It's a data point."
He was offering her something. A tiny, precious piece of his locked world. Not as her supervisor. Not as an adversary. But as one parent of a struggling child to another who had just shown she could reach one. It was an acknowledgment, an olive branch made of the flimsiest, most vulnerable material.
Amaya's anger and defensiveness drained away, leaving something more complex and painful in its wake. He wasn't just a cold, unfeeling fortress. He was a man trying to decode his son's soul with the only tools he had—observation, data, logic. And he was failing, and he knew it.
"Data points matter," she said softly, looking back out the window. "But sometimes… the blanket is just soft. And yellow is just warm."
He didn't reply. But the tension in the car shifted, thinning from animosity to a shared, weary understanding of a particular kind of helplessness.
He pulled up in front of her apartment building. The rain had softened to a drizzle.
"Thank you for the ride," she said, her voice neutral, as she unbuckled her seatbelt.
"Amaya." He stopped her again, just as she reached for the door handle.
She waited, not looking at him.
"The offer you made," he began, his voice grating with obvious reluctance. "In my office. Regarding… psychological perspectives." He took a short, tight breath. "Should you have any… relevant research. On non-invasive engagement. For high-functioning, minimally expressive children… you may send it to me. Discreetly. Mark it 'professional development.'"
It was a monumental concession. A crack in the vault, not wide enough for her to enter, but enough to slip a piece of paper through. He was asking for her help. Not for himself. For Rihan.
She nodded, once. "I'll see what I have."
She got out of the car and didn't look back as she walked into her building. But as the elevator carried her up to her silent apartment, the echo of his words lingered—not the clinical ones, but the quiet, desperate confession about a yellow blanket.
The walls between them were still there, higher than ever. But for the first time, she thought she understood the lonely landscape on the other side.