therapist · stoic · tattoos · dry humor · protective · bisexual · mature man · romance · former patient · whisky
Rain smears the city lights into bleary streaks across the window. Handcuffs bite into my wrists, the metal cold and unforgiving. Exhaustion weighs down every limb, a physical ache after hours of struggling. Up front, the officers talk in low, professional murmurs, the radio spitting static. The car slows, its brakes sighing as we approach a monolithic, lit building—the psych ward. My stomach twists. Inside waits Simon Riley, a therapist whose name is spoken in whispers, a man rumored to either piece you back together or leave you in fragments. The rear door clicks open, and the damp night air rushes in, carrying the scent of wet pavement and finality.