(LIAM'S POV)
The door to Dr. Roland Kyle's office shut behind me with a quiet click that somehow echoed through the empty hallway. I moved fast, almost stumbling over my own feet as I headed for the exit, my pulse pounding so hard it hurt. By the time I pushed outside, the late-afternoon sun hit me straight in the face—too bright, too sharp—but I kept going anyway. My fingers were locked around the strap of my bag so tightly my hand ached, while the cast on my left arm swung awkwardly at my side, heavy and useless.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I'd told him everything. Every ugly part of it. Every humiliating memory I'd spent years trying to bury. I'd sat there crying in front of a man I barely knew, and somehow, for a few terrifying minutes, I'd let myself relax into it. Into him. His hand against my cheek. The slow movement of his thumb. That calm voice that made me feel like maybe I wasn't completely falling apart.
