Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Darian paused outside the door marked Dr. Samuel Denten, Psy.D. The metal occupied/vacant slider rested on “vacant,” but it might as well have said “enter if you dare”.
His palms were damp. Not from fear exactly. From expectation. From knowing this hour would be the first time in months someone looked at him and really saw him.
What makes it so hard?
He swiped his hand down the leg of his jeans and knocked once before stepping inside.
The room was warm and inviting. The four walls were wood-paneled, and the room faintly scented of orange oil and old books.
A black leather chaise sat diagonally from a simple wooden desk.
Across the way, a colorful low bookshelf offered bins of toys, picture books, and a ridiculously detailed dollhouse tucked into the corner.
A round table held a scattering of markers and construction paper.
The space looked like a mashup of therapist’s office and preschool classroom.
He wasn’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.
“Good morning.” Dr. Sam Denten rose and moved from behind his desk as his gaze finally landed on him. “Glad you came.” He held out his hand.
“Thank you.” Darian closed the distance between them and shook the hand. The strength in the grip surprised him a bit.
Sam looked like someone in his early fifties, fit but not showy, short gray hair, calm blue eyes.
The man exuded an assertive calm that appealed to his lost, inner Little.
Not because the therapist demanded it from him, but because silence fell naturally and comforting around Dr. Sam.
Dressed in nice slacks and dress shoes, combined with a comfy, dark sweater he was just as much of a contradiction as the room.
“You can sit anywhere you like. Couch, chair, floor, or even the beanbag if it calls to you.”
Darian let out a half-laugh and made for the couch. “I think I’ll try the grown-up option first.”
Sam smiled and cocked his head. “Whatever works.”
Perching on the edge of the couch, Darian held his fingers threaded tightly in his lap.
Sam didn’t sit behind the desk. He took the armchair across from him and rested one ankle over his knee. The move made his slacks leg ride higher and reveal… colorful Happy Socks.
Before Darian could control it, Danny let out a snort.
Dr. Sam followed his gaze and pulled up his slacks even higher to reveal more of the sock, and he grinned. “Do you like them?”
“I do.” Danny nodded. “I wasn’t expecting them.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Sam stroked his chin. “Maybe not. I tend to dress… work appropriate I guess, but I like to add some personal touches to my outfit as well.” He rested his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward. “You’ve had a few days to settle in.” He dipped his head. “Anything you want to start with?”
Danny hesitated. Yesterday, Dr. Sam had explained how this worked. The therapist could guide the session, but it was on the patient to fill the space.
He swallowed. “I’m not... good at this. Talking, I mean.”
“Most people aren’t at first. It’s like moving to a new city. You’re navigating and think you’ve got a sense of the streets, and then you end up in a dead-end alley wondering how the hell you got there.”
Darian’s lips twitched, like his mouth had forgotten how to form a smile. “Yeah. That’s about right.”
Sam gave him a moment before asking, “Do you want me to call you Danny, or Darian?”
He blinked. “I’ve been using Darian for a long time. But it feels... heavy. Like armor. And I think I’m ready to try being Danny again. At least here.”
Sam nodded. “Welcome back, Danny.”
Inhaling sharply, an unexpected warmth bloomed in Danny’s chest. He’d thought hearing the name might sting. Instead, it fit. Like a hoodie long lost to the back of the closet. The material soft and worn in but still his.
“You can alter the name if it doesn’t fit later,” Sam added. “There’s no rule that you have to keep anything that doesn’t serve you.”
Danny nodded again and chewed on his bottom lip. “Thanks.”
Sam didn’t answer right away. And the silence stretched.
Danny stared at the carpet between his Doc Martens, letting his hands fall loose against his thighs. What was he supposed to say? Where was he even supposed to begin?
He hadn’t truly relaxed since the day Wilbert got the diagnosis.
Everything shifted in that instant. One moment, Wilbert had been his bigger-than-life, unshakable, and steady Daddy.
The next, he was a man with an expiration date.
A man who needed caretaking. And Danny… stopped being Little.
Stopped being enough. He became vigilant and practical. He became Darian.
He could still hear the IV machine beeping.
Still smell antiseptic and saltines. He’d stopped calling him Daddy somewhere along the way.
Maybe because it hurt too much. Maybe because Wilbert stopped answering to it.
Or maybe because when you’re the one fetching medication and calling nurses at three a.m., the word just gets stuck in your throat.
He’d started waking at night, reaching for slippers before he was even fully conscious. Sometimes Wilbert had needed him. Sometimes it had been nothing but the creak of the house settling or a stray siren from the street.
And now, almost a year and a half later, he still woke up almost every night.
The sound that jolted him was never real, but the adrenaline was.
His mind spun like a washing machine on tilt.
There was no sense or order to his thoughts, just a mess of guilt and grief and phantom voices calling from another room.
And always, the memories of those final months and days haunted him. He’d had to watch Wilbert’s muscles shrink, his voice weaken, and his beautiful smile turn into a hollow mask of pain. His Daddy had turned into a husk in a wheelchair, barely skin stretched over brittle bones.
Even now, long after the funeral, Danny would lie awake after those midnight jolts, chest tight, throat dry, staring into the darkness while the hours slipped away.
Every time he closed his eyes, something surged up.
Some nights, he gave up and turned on the light.
Others, he just lay there, trapped in a silent storm of thoughts.
So when Sam asked what he wanted to start with, Danny didn’t have an answer.
Because where the hell do you start when the grief didn’t come in one wave but in a thousand sharp little cuts that never quite stopped bleeding?
Finally, he admitted, “I’m having trouble sleeping.”
Sam didn’t react with surprise. Just nodded once, hands resting loosely on his thighs. “What can you tell me about that?”
Danny shrugged, then winced at himself. It felt like a cop-out.
He wasn’t here to play deflection games.
“I don’t think I’ve had a full night in…
two years? Maybe more.” He exhaled, like the truth had to be coaxed out one lungful at a time.
“I fall asleep okay, most nights. But then I wake up. Not just once. Sometimes three, four times. My body just reacts to every small sound. Like it’s on call. ”
His fingers curled into the edge of the cushion, nails digging into the fabric.
“At first, I thought it would stop after Wilbert passed. That I’d stop listening for him.
But I still do. Every time I wake up, it’s like my brain forgets he’s not there anymore and I’m half out of bed in a wink, and then I remember he’s gone. It’s like a bad song on repeat.”
“That must be exhausting.”
“It is.” Danny laughed, but even to his own ears it sounded bitter. “I used to think exhaustion was when I’d been bratting all evening to get out of my chores and still had to do dishes. Now it’s just… feeling like a hollow shell in a too big bed.”
He glanced toward the shelves of toys and coloring books, bright and cheerful and completely foreign to the gray static inside his head.
“It’s not just the sleep,” he said, voice low.
“Eating’s a mess too. Not like I don’t eat—I do.
Too much sometimes. But it’s all crap. Candy.
Chips. Whatever’s easy. I haven’t cooked a real meal in…
I don’t even know. It’s like I’m chasing sugar highs to stay upright. ”
His gaze dropped, unbidden, to Sam’s hands where they rested on his thighs. Danny’s fingers flexed against the arm of the couch, suddenly aware of how tightly he was holding on. He wasn’t even sure what for.
“I think,” he continued slowly, “I need someone who’ll hold me accountable. Not just tell me to do better, but actually… notice when I don’t.”
Sam nodded, his expression thoughtful but neutral. “That makes sense. Sometimes we need structure more than we need willpower. Grief drains the part of us that remembers how to care for ourselves.”
Danny swallowed hard and forced his eyes back to the bookshelf, not wanting to read too much into the silence that followed. Sam hadn’t reacted to his staring. Hadn’t shifted or called attention to it.
“I used to love food,” Danny whispered. “Wilbert could cook, like really cook. He’d make the most ridiculous kid meals—dinosaurs made of pancakes, or homemade chicken nuggets from the air fryer.
Called them ‘brain fuel for good boys’. I thought I’d never get sick of that kind of love.
” His chest tightened. “But near the end, I was the one feeding him. One bite at a time. Like I was the grown-up. Like he wasn’t him anymore.
And now when I try to eat something healthy, it just… tastes like sorrow.”
He glanced up, expecting pity. But Sam didn’t flinch. Didn’t crowd him with sympathy. Just held the moment open.
Danny swallowed. “I don’t really know who I am now.”
There. That was the heart of it.
He kept going, voice quieter. “I used to be Little. A happy Little. I wore footie pajamas and made pillow forts and watched cartoons with Daddy. I haven’t been able to touch any of that since he died. I can’t even pretend. It’s like… I lost the map back to that part of me.”
His throat burned. He threw his hands up and covered his face.
“I want it back.” He spoke into his palms. “I think. But it also scares the hell out of me. What if I open that door and it’s just empty inside?”
Sam leaned forward, rose from the chair and moved to a nearby shelf, pulling down a small tray with an assortment of colored stones.
“This isn’t mandatory,” he explained, placing the tray on the low table between them. “But sometimes it helps to let your hands say what your mouth can’t.”
Danny stared at the tray. It held a collection of smooth stones in soft shades of blue, green, gray, cream.
Sam held one up, a polished pale pink one. “This is rose quartz. Some people use it to represent love, comfort, safety. You can pick one, if you want. Or not. No pressure.”
Danny leaned forward, hovered his hand over the tray, and chose a deep blue stone. He turned the stone over in his hand. The deep blue seemed to shimmer faintly under the office lights, golden veins catching like threads of fire through water.
“It’s pretty,” he murmured. “Feels… solid.”
Sam nodded. “That’s lapis lazuli. Ancient stone. It’s been associated with truth, protection, and clarity for centuries. Some people say it helps quiet the noise. The internal as well as the external. Opens the door to deeper self-awareness.”
Danny snorted softly. “Little rock’s got a hell of a résumé.”
“It doesn’t do the work for you.” Sam smiled and leaned back in his chair. He steepled his hands under his chin. “But sometimes, having something in your hand—something you chose—can help remind you that you’re still grounded. Still real. Still here.”
Danny traced his thumb over the smooth surface, the weight of it oddly comforting in his palm. Like it had been waiting for him. Like it knew something he didn’t. “I like it.”
Sam tilted his head. “Then keep it.”
That simple?
Danny blinked. “It’s a gemstone.”
“It is,” Sam agreed. “And you’re worth it.”
A heat crept up Danny’s neck. “What if someone else needs it?”
“Then I’ll get a new one.”
Silence settled between them again, but this time it had a shape.
Danny rolled the stone between his fingers, the cool weight settling something in his belly.
Lapis lazuli.
Truth. Protection. Clarity.
A load of woo-woo, maybe, but it was his. He liked the feel of it. It made things feel less slippery inside his own skull. Danny tucked the stone into the pocket of his hoodie and said nothing more and neither did Sam.