Chapter 32 #2
“You know why I’m here. You’ve read the tabloids.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Anyone can look my name up online and see everything they’ve ever said about me. I’m not exactly an easy guy. What if I get mad and do something to them?”
“There it is,” Dr. Bennet murmurs, tapping his pen once. “You’re afraid you’ll become like him, aren’t you?”
My stomach drops.
Of all the sentences he could have pulled from the air, that one hits the center of everything I try to bury.
I rub both hands over my face, regretting—deeply, painfully—the day I told him about that foster home.
The one with the man who pretended to be a savior, only to turn into something else entirely behind closed doors.
The man who carried rage like it was stitched into his bones.
The man who used his size, his authority, his voice like a weapon.
And his wife . . . she didn’t deserve any of it.
She was kind in a soft, practical way. She snuck extra food onto our plates when he wasn’t looking.
She let us sit at the kitchen table with her while she cooked, telling stories that kept our minds busy so we wouldn’t hear what was happening down the hall.
She stood between him and us more than once—small, determined, terrified—but she did it anyway.
I remember her stepping in front of me once, her hands trembling so hard I thought they’d break apart.
He had been screaming—some nonsense about chores or respect or whatever lie he needed to justify his rage—and he shoved me so hard my knees hit the ground. Before I could breathe, she was there, blocking him with her body.
“Enough,” she’d whispered, voice barely a thread.
He struck her for it.
And she still looked back at me afterward, eyes shining with something fierce, like she’d do it again. As if protecting us mattered more than her own bruises.
One day, she was gone.
“Accident,” they said at first, but every kid in that house knew better. Every kid learned what fear tasted like. Every kid learned what it meant to be powerless.
A couple of days later, he was in custody, and we were shipped yet again to other places where things would be better or worse depending on the family we got. That’s when I learned that you have to keep your ground, be tough, and punch first before they punch you.
I look at Dr. Bennet now, throat tight with something I don’t want to name.
“Yeah, I don’t want to be like him,” I say quietly. “Ever. I don’t want to be someone people need to hide from. He always told his wife he loved her and . . .”
I drag in a slow breath.
“And when I’m around Mara and Mila . . . I keep thinking, what if something in me snaps one day? What if I turn into him without meaning to? What if all this work, all these years, all this therapy . . . isn’t enough?”
Dr. Bennet leans back, studying me—not like a threat, but like a man trying to find the right doorway into a collapsing building.
“You’re afraid of becoming him,” he says. “But from everything you’ve told me, you’ve spent your entire life doing the opposite of what he did.”
I swallow hard. “I hit shit, rearrange people’s noses when they—”
“You were high, you were afraid . . . there were a lot of factors that took you to that point,” he interrupts me.
“You were used to defending your territory because of the way you grew up. When was the last time you had a physical altercation with anyone? You’ve been working hard on yourself for years.
Why are you disregarding all that hard work? ”
I open my mouth and close it, but nothing comes out.
“Fear doesn’t mean fate,” he continues. “It means you care enough to question yourself. That alone separates you from him entirely.”
I shake my head, frustrated. “Then why do I feel wired when she’s near me? Why do I want to protect her more than I trust myself? Why do I want to be close to them when I know I shouldn’t?”
His expression softens in a way that makes me want to bolt.
“Because, Alec,” he says quietly, “you’re not him. And the part of you that’s afraid? That’s the part that’s been trying to keep you safe your whole life.”
I close my eyes.
Protective.
Caring.
Drawn.
All the things I’m not supposed to feel.
All the things that terrify me more than anything else.
Yeah.
That part.
That knife-edge truth I keep stepping around.
“She cried on me,” I say quietly. “And I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. It wasn’t even a question—I was just there, holding her like my body knew what to do before my brain could catch up. I felt—”
I stop, because the words feel dangerous. Too close to a confession of love that I don’t feel.
“I just don’t want to break anything,” I finish lamely.
“At some point,” he says, “you’ll have to choose whether the ache of losing is worse than the cost of never feeling at all.”
I huff out a breath that doesn’t feel like relief or humor—just resignation dressed up as sarcasm. “Sounds exhausting. It’d be easier if I leave.”
“It is easier,” he agrees. His voice is calm in that therapist way I pretend doesn’t get under my skin.
“Remaining alone is easy too. Not wanting to be a better person is a piece of cake. And yet, here you are. More than a month ago, you came in terrified you’d end up lonely and die like your neighbor, unnoticed for days because you kept pushing everyone away. ”
I stare at the rug for a long moment.
He’s right. I did say that. I walked in here with that exact fear lodged in my chest, imagining myself collapsing somewhere in my apartment and no one realizing I was missing. Just another silence in a building full of closed doors.
I rub the back of my neck, suddenly too aware of how quiet the room feels. “Okay, fine. I said that.”
“And something changed,” he says gently. “Enough that you’re sitting here worrying about what you might do to someone rather than assuming no one would ever get close in the first place.”
I don’t look at him, because if I do, I’ll see exactly what he’s getting at. Everything that’s been happening since she arrived.
I drag in a breath, slow enough to keep it from shaking. “Connections get messy.”
“And?” he prompts.
“And I don’t know if I can handle that,” I admit. My throat feels thick, as if the words drag old ghosts with them. “Every time I let someone close, something goes wrong. They leave. Or they get hurt. Or I ruin it without meaning to.”
He crosses one leg over the other. “And what if that’s not the ending this time?”
I laugh under my breath. “You’re betting on the wrong horse.”
“I’m not betting,” he says. “I’m observing. You’re already choosing them. Whether you admit it or not.”
A pulse kicks low in my gut—too honest, too revealing. “I don’t like that.”
“Is it dislike or fear?”
The truth slips out, with a rawness I’m not prepared. “I walk into their penthouse and I don’t feel . . . alone. It’s loud and unpredictable, and Mila asks more questions than any human should, but it feels like—” I stop, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Dr. Bennet lets a beat pass. “You don’t run from them.”
He’s right.
I don’t.
I move toward them like there’s a pull I can’t fight—like something in me recognizes them before I have time to overthink it.
The problem isn’t staying.
It’s how much I want to and how afraid I’m of not being able to protect them—even from me.
“What if I decide to stay?” I hear myself asking.
Dr. Bennet doesn’t flinch. “Then you do it right. No more dipping in and out. No more disappearing at the first sign of something real.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he says gently. “But it is necessary. If you’re going to be part of their life, you show up. Fully. Not as the man you’re afraid you might become—but as the man you’re trying to be. The version of yourself you keep hoping is possible.”
Something in those words slips beneath my defenses and settles deep, somewhere I don’t usually let anything touch. A place I’ve kept braced and boarded up for years, convinced nothing good belonged there.
“You think I can do that?” I ask, quieter than I meant.
“I think,” he says, “that you already are. And that scares you more than the alternative.”
I look away. My jaw tightens—not from anger, but from the effort it takes to hold everything in when the truth brushes too close to the parts I’ve kept hidden. The ones I don’t let anyone touch. Not even myself most days.
He’s right. Avoiding them for one day drained me in a way nothing else has done it before. I can handle silence. I can handle failure. But choosing not to see Mara and Mila? That’s not space—it’s deprivation. A version of solitude that tastes like regret before it even begins.
“You’ll have to tell her eventually,” he adds.
“Tell her what?” I ask, and the crack in my voice humiliates me.
“What you want.” He hesitates, for just a second, and says what we both know is the real risk. “Your feelings.”
The air shifts—too warm, too narrow. I look away from him, but my hands betray me, flexing open like I’m searching for something to hold. Maybe her hand. Maybe a future I swore I’d never want.
“And Alec,” he says, quiet enough that it sinks into my spine, “if you want them . . . you go home today and act like it.”
I don’t speak. I’ve been on the verge of this moment before—standing at the edge of connection, pretending detachment is safer.
But here’s the truth: Mara feels like an answer to a question I didn’t know I’d been asking.
She’s chaos theory wrapped in soft sweaters and broken laughter.
And Mila? That kid rearranged my neurons on day one, didn’t even ask for permission.
I think I’d follow both of them into any room, any storm, without thinking.
The idea of losing them makes my chest cave in—but not being part of their world?
That’s what would ruin me.
I stand slowly, as if any sudden movement might wake the part of me that still wants to disappear. But that voice—the one that always begged for silence—feels smaller now. Distant.
At the door, he speaks again.
“You asked me once how people know when they’re ready.”
I meet his eyes.
“You’re asking the questions of a man who’s already decided.”
My breath catches. It’s a subtle shift—like breath after a long dive. A knowing. It’s terrifying.
And right now, I want to go home. Though, I have no fucking idea what I’m going to do once I get there.
Show up?