Chapter 31
Aria woke up feeling hungover and emotionally drained.
No liquor had been consumed but her body felt just as wrecked.
For a few seconds, she stared at the ceiling, disoriented.
The room was dim.
Gray morning light slipped weakly through the curtains.
Her body felt heavy.
Exhaustion sat behind her eyes like pressure.
Then memory hit.
The kitchen.
Chase on his knees.
Her crying so hard she could barely breathe.
The things she said.
The things he said.
The way he had looked at her like she had broken him open.
Her stomach twisted painfully.
God.
She may have said too much.
Not because it wasn't true.
Because it was.
Every ugly, devastating piece of it had been true.
But vulnerability always felt unbearable the morning after.
Like showing someone the inside of your chest and then having to wake up and pretend you still knew how to function afterward.
She rolled over and checked the clock.
Barely any sleep.
Not surprising.
Every time she drifted off, something dragged her back awake.
The sound of him crying.
The feel of his forehead against her hands.
The look on his face when she admitted she buried him.
A sharp ache settled in her chest.
Because for the first time since he came back...
She thought he finally understood.
And somehow that made everything hurt worse.
Because understanding did not undo damage.
Understanding did not erase Emily.
Understanding did not give them back the years.
And understanding sure as hell did not magically make them okay.
Slowly, she pushed herself upright.
The house felt different now.
Not unfamiliar.
Just strange.
Like one wrong sentence could splinter everything all over again.
She took longer than usual getting dressed.
Simple jeans.
Oversized sweater.
Hair twisted into something acceptable enough to leave the bedroom.
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a second too long.
Puffy eyes.
Exhaustion.
Emotion sitting too close to the surface.
She looked exactly how she felt.
Tired. Sad. Scared.
And strangely guilty for saying out loud the things she had buried for years.
By the time she opened the bedroom door, the house was already awake.
A soft sound came from downstairs.
Movement.
She hesitated.
Then forced herself toward it.
The kitchen was empty.
Coffee sat brewing.
Fresh.
Which surprised her.
The back door stood cracked open slightly.
Cool morning air slipping inside.
And through the glass...
She saw him.
Chase sat alone on the back deck.
Fully dressed already.
Elbows resting on his knees.
Coffee untouched beside him.
Staring at absolutely nothing.
Something about the sight of him made her chest ache immediately.
He looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like sleep had never even come close to finding him.
She watched him for a second longer than she meant to.
His shoulders looked heavier somehow.
The weight of last night still sitting on him.
She understood the feeling.
Taking a slow breath, she pushed the door open.
The sound made him look up immediately.
For a second, something unreadable crossed his face.
Relief maybe.
"Morning," he said softly.
His voice sounded rough.
Like he hadn't used it much.
"Morning."
The word felt awkward leaving her mouth.
Not because she didn't know him.
Because suddenly she knew him too much again.
Too much truth sitting between them.
Too much pain.
She stepped onto the deck slowly.
He stood immediately.
Instinct.
Respect.
Distance.
Like he wasn't sure what he was allowed to do around her anymore.
That hurt in ways she didn't want to examine.
"You didn't sleep," she said quietly.
Not really a question.
A small humorless breath escaped him.
"Not really."
His eyes flickered briefly toward her.
"You?"
"Not really."
He nodded once like he already knew the answer.
Silence settled between them afterwards.
Aria wrapped her arms around herself against the morning chill.
"You made coffee?"
"Attempted to."
That almost sounded like old Chase.
Almost.
"I think I did okay."
She glanced at the mug beside him.
Untouched.
"You haven't drank any."
His jaw shifted slightly.
"Nerves."
Right.
Therapy was today.
Of course.
She forgot for one second.
Or maybe she just didn't want to think about it yet.
He rubbed a hand over his face slowly.
"I kept thinking about everything you said."
Her chest tightened immediately.
The vulnerability in his voice felt dangerous this morning.
Too raw.
She looked out toward the yard instead.
Quiet grass still wet from dew.
Birds somewhere in the distance.
A world continuing despite devastation.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Me too."
Because neither of them really knew what to say after that.
And pretending none of it happened felt impossible.
Finally, Chase looked at her carefully.
"You still want me to go?"
The question landed softly.
Carefully.
But she heard what he really meant.
Do you still believe I'm worth trying for?
Do you still think there's something left to save?
Aria forced herself to stay steady.
"Yes."
Firm. Certain.
"You're going."
Something unreadable flickered through his expression.
Fear maybe.
Relief.
Maybe both.
"What if she tells me there's something really wrong with me?"
There it was.
The real fear.
Not therapy.
Himself.
She looked at him fully then.
At the man who had survived things she still couldn't fully comprehend.
At the exhaustion beneath his eyes.
At the guilt practically stitched into him now.
"There is so many things wrong," she said honestly.
His face dropped immediately.
Then she continued.
"You have severe trauma."
His breathing slowed slightly.
"That's not a character flaw."
A pause.
"It's not weakness either."
He looked away.
Toward the yard.
"I don't feel like myself."
The words came quiet.
Of course he didn't.
How could anyone?
"You're not," she admitted softly.
His eyes lifted back to hers.
Not angry.
Just scared.
And somehow that made him look younger.
Lost.
"I don't think the goal here is getting back to who you were," she said carefully.
The words tasted bitter.
Because she hated them too.
"But maybe figuring out who you are now."
Those words settled between them.
Because neither of them liked what it meant.
The Chase she lost was gone.
Not completely.
But enough.
And whatever came next...
Would have to be something new.
Chase looked down at his hands.
Quiet again.
After a moment, he nodded once.
Small.
Like he hated the truth but understood it anyway.
"You trust this doctor?"
"Yes."
No hesitation.
That seemed to matter to him.
"She taught one of my trauma electives in med school."
He frowned slightly.
"You took her class?"
"Yes, and she is incredible."
A faint smile crossed her face.
"She scared everybody."
That got the smallest reaction out of him.
Not quite a smile.
But close.
"Good scared?"
"The kind where she asks questions you don't want to answer because she already knows when you're lying about understanding the material."
His expression shifted.
Something between dread and acceptance.
"That sounds terrible."
"It kind of was."
For the first time all morning, the corner of his mouth moved slightly.
Tiny and gone too fast.
"We should leave in thirty," she said.
He nodded immediately.
"Okay."
No argument.
No resistance.
Just tired acceptance.
And somehow that scared her too.
Because Chase had always fought things.
Stubborn.
Hardheaded.
Protective.
This version?
This version looked like a man terrified of losing what little he had left.
The drive to downtown Nashville felt longer than it actually was.
Not because of traffic.
Because neither of them knew what to say.
The radio stayed off.
The silence wasn't awkward exactly.
Just careful.
Like both of them were still trying to gather themselves after last night.
Chase sat in the passenger seat staring mostly out the window, but Aria noticed things.
Of course she noticed things.
She always noticed things.
The way his posture stayed rigid.
The constant movement of his eyes.
Rearview mirror.
Side mirror.
Cars beside them.
Bridges.
Overpasses.
Entrances.
Exits.
Every single time they stopped, his attention automatically shifted toward the quickest way out.
Hypervigilance.
Predictable.
Expected.
Still hard to witness.
Especially now that she understood more.
Now that she knew pieces of what had happened to him.
Not details.
Not everything.
But enough.
Enough to know his body no longer trusted safety.
Enough to know survival had become instinct.
"You okay?" she asked quietly after almost twenty minutes.
He let out a slow breath through his nose.
"Depends on your definition."
Honest.
That at least felt familiar.
"You wanna elaborate?"
His jaw tightened briefly.
Then relaxed.
"I feel like I'm about to find out if I'm permanently broken."
The words landed heavily between them.
Aria kept her eyes on the road.
"You're not broken."
"That feels generous."
"No," she said quietly. "It's accurate."
He glanced over at her then.
Really looked at her.
Like he was trying to figure out if she actually believed what she was saying.
"What if they tell me I'm never gonna be normal again?"
Her hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
Careful.
Thoughtful.
Because false reassurance would not help him.
And Chase deserved honesty.
"I don't think normal is really on the table anymore," she admitted.
He looked away immediately.
She saw it hit him.
Saw the disappointment settle.
But she kept going.
"That doesn't mean hopeless."
A pause.
"It means different."
His expression stayed unreadable.
"Different how?"
She hesitated.
Because the truth hurt.
"You survived things most people couldn't imagine."
Her voice softened.
"Your brain adapted."
Another pause.
"You aren't who you were before."
That part mattered so very much and he had to except that now.
She refused to lie about it.
"But," she added carefully, "that doesn't mean who you are now can't still be good."
That seemed to settle somewhere inside him.
Eventually, the city gave way to a quieter stretch just outside Nashville.
Less noise.
Less traffic.
A medical complex tucked farther back from the main road.
Low brick buildings.
Trees.
Walking paths.
Intentional calm.
Private.
Discreet.
No giant hospital feel.
No sterile panic.
Trauma patients needed environments that didn't overwhelm their nervous systems.
Chase noticed immediately.
She saw it in the way his shoulders loosened by maybe half an inch.
Not relaxed.
Just less braced.
"That's it?" he asked quietly.
"That's it."
He looked surprised.
"I expected something..."
"More hospital like?"
"Yeah."
"No this clinic is designed to feel like a home away from home."
She parked.
"Naomi hates environments that feel clinical."
He glanced toward the building.
"She does?"
Aria nodded.
"She specializes in trauma rehabilitation."
A pause.
"Military trauma especially."
That got his attention.
"You told her everything?"
His voice stayed neutral.
But she heard the vulnerability underneath it.
The fear.
Being known.
"I sent your records so she has had time to review your case," she said gently. "All of them."
He swallowed once.
"Even the ones from New Zealand too?"
"Yes."
"Surgical history?"
"Yes."
"The psych notes?"
"Yes."
He looked out the windshield for a long second.
Quiet.
Then finally:
"So she already knows how messed up I am."
The self loathing in the sentence hit hard.
Aria turned toward him fully.
"No. She already knows what happened to you."
A pause.
"There's a difference in that information that you need to except."
Something in his expression shifted slightly.
Not belief exactly.
But maybe consideration.
Still, he didn't move.
Didn't reach for the door.
Didn't say anything.
Just sat there.
Hands clasped tightly together.
Jaw tense.
Breathing shallower than before.
And suddenly...
Aria recognized it immediately.
Not resistance.
Fear.
Real fear.
She softened despite herself.
"You don't have to figure everything out today."
His laugh came quiet.
Humorless.
"What if she thinks I'm crazy?"
"You survived torture."
The word landed and neither of them flinched from it this time.
"You survived prolonged trauma, memory loss, captivity, neurological damage, PTSD..."
She paused.
"Crazy isn't exactly the diagnosis I'm expecting."
Something almost sad crossed his face.
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple and I am sorry you endured any of that."
Honest again.
Nothing about this was simple.
"But it's real and it did happen."
He looked down at his hands.
Then quietly he asked.
"You staying?"
The question hit somewhere soft.
Because it sounded smaller than he probably intended.
Like he wasn't asking practically.
Like he needed to know.
Aria nodded once.
"Yes."
Another pause.
"But I'm not speaking for you."
That mattered.
"No rescuing," she added quietly. "No answering questions for you."
He nodded.
"That's fair."
And then neither moved again.
Thirty seconds.
Maybe longer.
Until finally Chase let out one slow breath.
Opened the door.
And stepped out.
The waiting room looked nothing like a medical office.
Warm lighting.
Bookshelves.
Soft earth tones.
Windows.
Plants.
No fluorescent lights.
No hospital smell.
Comfort designed intentionally.
Trauma informed spaces mattered.
The receptionist greeted them softly and offered water.
Chase declined.
Aria accepted.
Mostly for something to do with her hands.
Five minutes later, a woman stepped into the room.
Late forties maybe.
Dark hair streaked with silver.
Sharp eyes softened by experience.
Confident without trying too hard.
The kind of person who immediately made you feel like lying would be pointless.
Her gaze landed on Aria first.
Recognition immediate.
"Well," she said calmly, "if it isn't my favorite trauma student."
Aria blinked once before raising a brow.
"You said that to all of us."
Naomi's mouth twitched.
"No," she said. "Most of them only annoyed me."
Her attention then shifted to Chase.
"Chase," she said gently, extending her hand. "I'm Naomi Bennett."
Not Will.
Chase.
Intentional.
He noticed too.
Aria saw it in the way his expression shifted briefly.
He shook her hand.
"You already know everything about me."
Naomi's expression softened slightly.
"No."
A beat.
"I know what happened to you."
Naomi gestured toward the hallway.
"Come on. Let's see where we're starting."
Chase hated places like this, they always expected things from him.
Questions.
Answers.
Truth.
Especially truth.
Truth had however become dangerous in his situation.
Every memory that returned carried something ugly with it.
Pain.
Blood.
Fear.
Sometimes screams.
Sometimes faces.
Sometimes things so horrific his brain shoved them back into darkness before he could fully understand what he was remembering.
And now he was voluntarily walking into a place designed to dig through all of it.
That felt a lot like insanity.
The building surprised him because it did not look like a hospital.
Calm in a way that almost made him suspicious.
His eyes moved around the room automatically.
Habit.
Front entrance.
Reception desk.
Hallway.
Emergency exit near the back.
No obvious threats.
Still...
His body stayed tight anyway.
Because safe had stopped feeling real a long time ago.
Beside him, Aria sat quietly.
Hands wrapped around a plastic bottle of water she had barely touched.
She looked exhausted.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, dark circles sitting faintly beneath her eyes.
And guilt twisted hard in his chest again.
Because now every time he looked at her, all he heard was:
"I buried you."
Jesus Christ.
He did not think he would ever recover from hearing her say that.
The image alone wrecked him.
Her standing somewhere grieving him.
Arguing with people who had already decided he was gone.
Holding onto hope while everyone else slowly buried it alongside an empty casket.
And meanwhile, he had been somewhere else entirely.
Alive.
Breathing.
Calling someone else his wife.
The thought made him feel physically sick.
He rubbed his palms against his jeans.
It was just all too much.
Too much thinking.
Too much guilt.
Too much everything.
The sound of footsteps pulled his attention up.
A woman stepped into the waiting room.
Late forties maybe.
Dark hair touched with silver.
Sharp eyes.
The kind of person who looked like she missed absolutely nothing.
Her attention landed on Aria first.
Recognition immediate.
"Well," she said evenly, "if it isn't my favorite trauma student."
Something in Aria softened.
Barely.
"You said that to everybody."
"No," the woman replied calmly. "Most of you annoyed me."
For the first time all morning, Chase caught the ghost of a reaction from Aria.
It was a tiny barely noticeable smile.
Then the woman looked at him.
Not pity.
Not curiosity.
Not the cautious concern people had started giving him lately.
Just a steady and professional look mixed with kindness.
"Chase," she said, extending a hand. "I'm Naomi Bennett."
He shook her hand.
"You already know everything about me it would seem Dr. Bennet."
The words came out rougher than he had intended.
Naomi's expression did not change.
"No," she said calmly. "I know what happened to you."
A pause.
"That is not the same thing."
Something about that answer settled oddly with him.
Because Aria had said almost the exact same thing in the parking lot.
Like they had already discussed him.
Which, of course, they had.
Aria had probably prepared enough medical documentation to rebuild a country.
Naomi gestured toward the hallway.
"Come on."
Then to Aria.
"You too."
The office surprised him too.
No desk between them.
Three chairs positioned in something that looked like a circle.
Soft lighting.
Bookshelves.
Windows.
No obvious authority position.
Naomi waited until they sat before taking the chair across from them.
Tablet resting loosely in her lap.
No clipboard.
No giant file sitting between them.
Nothing that made him feel like a problem being solved.
Still, he felt exposed.
Like she could probably see straight through him already.
"Before we start," Naomi said calmly, "I want to explain how this works."
Her tone stayed measured.
Grounded.
No fake softness.
No clinical coldness either.
He appreciated that immediately.
"I reviewed everything Aria sent over with your permission. Neurology reports, surgical history, psychiatric evaluations, military records, medication history, rehabilitation notes from New Zealand."
He shifted slightly in his seat.
God.
That sounded invasive when someone said it out loud.
Seen in ways he wasn't sure he liked.
"But charts," she continued, "do not tell me who someone is."
Her attention stayed on him.
"They tell me what happened."
That distinction again.
Interesting.
"My job is not to tell you who you are."
Something about that made his shoulders loosen by maybe an inch.
"My job," she continued, "is helping you understand what surviving did to you."
Naomi crossed one leg over the other.
"Today is assessment," she explained. "We are not diving headfirst into trauma memories."
Good.
Because he was not sure he could survive that today.
"We are identifying symptoms, stressors, coping patterns, emotional regulation, memory function, and how your nervous system is responding."
Nervous system.
That sounded less terrifying than broken brain.
"Most importantly," she added, "we are making sure not to overwhelm you."
He almost laughed at that.
His entire body felt overwhelmed constantly.
Like every nerve sat just slightly too close to the surface.
Naomi's eyes settled on him again.
"So."
Direct.
"What scares you most about being here?"
That caught him off guard.
He expected symptom questions.
Memory evaluations.
Not... that.
His first instinct was to lie.
Say nothing.
Say he was fine.
Say literally anything except the truth.
But then he glanced toward Aria.
She looked tired.
Guarded.
Still hurt.
But here beside him and that meant she deserved his truth.
And suddenly lying felt disrespectful somehow.
So he told the truth.
"I think I'm scared you're gonna tell me this is permanent."
The room stayed quiet for a second.
Naomi nodded once.
"Permanent meaning?"
He swallowed.
"I don't feel like myself and maybe I never will again."
The words sounded pathetic out loud.
Small.
"I remember things now, but it doesn't feel complete."
He frowned slightly, trying to explain something he barely understood himself.
"Sometimes I feel like Chase."
His jaw tightened.
"Sometimes I feel like Will."
The name sat strangely in his mouth now.
Like someone he knew but no longer recognized.
"And sometimes," he admitted quietly, "I don't feel like either."
Naomi didn't rush to fill the silence.
Didn't overreact.
Didn't pity him.
She just nodded thoughtfully.
"That makes sense."
His brows pulled together immediately.
"That feels like a generous response."
"No," she said evenly. "Clinically realistic."
That surprised him.
"You survived prolonged captivity," she said calmly. "Repeated physical trauma. Psychological trauma. Neurological injury. Identity destabilization. Chronic fear."
Each phrase landed heavier than the last.
"Your brain adapted."
Adapted.
He didn't hate that word like he did broken.
"You experienced memory fragmentation."
His expression must have shown confusion because she continued.
"Memory is not stored like a filing cabinet," she explained. "It is emotional, sensory, associative."
Her attention held steady on him.
"When trauma becomes severe enough, the brain prioritizes survival over continuity."
Something painful tightened in his chest.
"So I just..."
He struggled for the word.
"Forgot?"
"No."
Firm.
Immediate.
"Your brain protected you."
The sentence was harder than anything else she had said to except.
Because all this time he blamed himself.
For forgetting Aria.
For forgetting home.
For becoming someone else.
"You survived conditions most people would not psychologically survive," Naomi continued gently.
"Your brain did exactly what it needed to do to keep you alive."
His gaze dropped to his hands.
And quietly, before he could stop himself, he admitted:
"Then why do I feel like I failed everybody?"
The room went still.
Because that was the real question, wasn't it?
Aria suffered.
Emily suffered.
Parker somehow got dragged into all of it.
And him?
He stood in the middle of the destruction feeling like he belonged nowhere.
Naomi's expression softened slightly.
"Because guilt often comes after survival," she said.
A pause.
"When someone finally becomes safe enough to process what happened, the mind starts asking different questions."
Her eyes held his.
"Why did I survive while everybody else suffered?"
Chase looked away.
Because yeah.
That sounded about right.
Chase looked down at his hands.
The scar across his knuckles caught his attention.
One of dozens.
Some remembered.
Some not.
His body had become a timeline his mind could not fully read.
Naomi let the silence sit for a moment.
Not uncomfortable.
Intentional.
Like she understood people sometimes needed room to hear themselves think.
Finally, she asked gently, "Tell me what 'failing everybody' looks like in your head."
His jaw tightened immediately.
God.
He hated questions.
Especially the ones that required honesty.
Because honesty lately felt like bleeding.
He leaned back slightly in the chair, rubbing his palms together once before speaking.
"I hurt people," he said finally.
The words came quiet.
Flat.
"People I love."
His throat tightened unexpectedly.
"That feels pretty close to failure."
Naomi nodded once.
Not agreeing.
Just listening.
"How?"
He let out a humorless breath.
"You got all the paperwork."
Her expression stayed calm.
"I want to hear your version."
Of course she did.
He glanced briefly toward Aria.
She stayed quiet.
Hands folded in her lap.
Listening.
Not rescuing.
Not interrupting.
And honestly? That somehow made this harder.
Because part of him wanted her to speak for him.
Translate him.
Explain him better than he could explain himself.
She had always been better with words than him.
But she didn't.
She stayed still.
Waiting.
Trusting him to answer for himself.
"I forgot her," he said finally, voice rough.
His eyes flickered toward Aria for half a second before dropping again.
"I forgot my whole life."
A pause.
"My family. My friends. My Career."
His jaw flexed.
"My wife."
The word still sounded strange now.
Complicated.
Heavy.
Naomi remained quiet.
Encouraging without pushing.
"And then..."
God.
This part made him feel sick.
"I moved on."
The sentence came quieter.
Shame sat thick inside it.
"I got married."
Silence.
Heavy silence.
He kept going anyway because if he stopped now, he probably wouldn't start again.
"And she stayed loyal to me." His chest tightened painfully.
"Even when she had to bury me."
The image hit again.
Sharp.
Brutal.
"She spent years grieving me while I..."
He swallowed hard.
"I was living another life."
Across from him, Naomi stayed grounded.
No judgment.
No visible reaction.
Which somehow made it easier to keep talking.
"And now I feel like I don't belong anywhere."
There was the real truth.
He laughed softly, bitterly.
"Too much of Chase for Will's life."
A pause.
"Too much of Will for Chase's."
He rubbed his hand over his face.
"Emily I am experiencing mixed feelings about right now.
.. in one hand I think she deserved someone who loved only her and could give her all good things.
.. in the other hand I am angry because I have been thinking she could have helped me more by helping me find who I was and not so much who I could become. "
The guilt and anger now sat heavy in his chest.
"Aria deserved the man she lost the man who promised to come back to her no matter what."
His voice lowered.
"And I don't feel like I'm good enough to be either."
The room stayed quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Thinking quiet.
Naomi finally leaned forward slightly.
"Can I challenge something you just said?"
He almost laughed.
"That sounds dangerous."
The corner of her mouth twitched.
"Sometimes it can be a little dangerous, but in a good way."
He sighed. "Sure."
"You said you failed everybody."
A pause.
"But what I am hearing is someone who survived catastrophic trauma and came away from it emotionally disoriented."
He shifted slightly.
That sounded too generous.
"You are measuring survival through morality," Naomi continued.
"You are asking yourself whether you made good decisions while operating under severe neurological and psychological injury."
Her eyes held his.
"That is not a fair measurement."
His jaw tightened.
"But people got hurt."
"Yes," she said simply.
The honesty caught him off guard.
"Yes, people got hurt."
No sugarcoating.
No pretending.
"Trauma has consequences," she continued gently.
"Your survival came with collateral damage."
That sentence hit hard.
Because that...
That actually felt true.
Ugly.
But true.
Naomi crossed one leg over the other.
"The important distinction is intent."
He frowned slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"You are speaking about yourself as though you consciously abandoned your life."
A pause.
"As though you knowingly chose to hurt people."
He opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Because... no he would never choose to hurt Aria.
Not knowingly.
Never knowingly.
"You did not wake up every day remembering Aria and choose someone Emily anyway," Naomi said carefully.
The words landed somewhere uncomfortable.
"You were functioning with an incomplete memory."
A pause.
"Your brain literally lacked context."
His throat tightened.
Because God...
That was the thing nobody seemed to understand.
Or maybe nobody had said out loud yet.
He had not chosen forgetting.
He had not chosen losing her.
Still, the guilt stayed.
"I still married someone else."
Quiet shame filled him.
Across the room, Aria shifted slightly.
First movement she had made in a while.
But she stayed silent.
Naomi nodded once.
"Yes."
No avoidance.
No pretending that part didn't exist.
"That happened."
He appreciated that.
Honestly.
Because pretending it didn't matter would have pissed him off.
"But," Naomi continued carefully, "we can acknowledge two truths simultaneously."
He looked up.
"You loved someone while operating with severe trauma and memory impairment."
A pause.
"And..."
Her voice softened slightly.
"That relationship involved an ethical imbalance."
He frowned.
Ethical imbalance.
That sounded clinical.
Complicated.
Naomi glanced briefly at her notes.
"You were her patient."
The room shifted slightly.
Tighter somehow.
"She provided care during a period where your cognitive and biographical functioning were compromised."
Her words stayed measured.
Not emotional.
Professional.
"Intent matters," she added. "I am not saying malicious intent existed."
A pause.
"But vulnerability matters too."
Chase looked down at his hands again.
Because God.
He had not even fully allowed himself to think about that yet.
Emily.
The hospital.
Physical therapy.
Rehabilitation.
Falling in love.
Marriage.
He always framed it as:
She helped me survive.
But now seeing it through this lens, well, now things looked messier.
Complicated in ways he had not fully unpacked.
Naomi spoke gently.
"We are not making judgments today."
That made him relax.
"We are making observations."
Another pause.
"And one observation is this..."
Her eyes held his steadily.
"You have spent an awful lot of time blaming yourself for surviving."
Something inside him shifted painfully at that.
Because yeah.
Maybe he had.
Maybe every memory coming back just gave him another reason to hate himself.
Quietly, before he could stop himself, he admitted:
"I don't know how to be okay with who I am now."
The truth sat heavy in the room.
Raw, honest and sad.
And for the first time since walking in
He looked scared.