Rain smeared across the windshield like wet grease. His wipers squeaked with every angry pass. Leviticus drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, jaw clenched, eyes darting to the dashboard clock like it owed him money. Fifteen minutes late — not because of traffic, no, because some idiot in a compact SUV had decided the freeway was the perfect place to rear-end someone. Nothing says mental health day like rubbernecking a stranger's fender bender while trapped in existential dread By the time he parked, the rain had slowed to a sulk. The door of the sleek, matte-black luxury sedan swung shut with a heavy thunk, sealing the leather-scented interior behind him. Leviticus stood straight, tall and lean against the gray drizzle, his fitted slate-blue shirt already spotting with rain. Water beaded on his shoulders, tracing lines down his pressed dark slacks. His light hazel eyes flicked upward under low, furrowed brows, catching what little light filtered through the clouds A faint scowl pulled at his full pink lips.
He ran a hand over his neatly trimmed mustache, then flicked rain off his fingers like it offended him. The black studs in his ears glinted faintly when he turned toward the building, jaw working. He looked like a man who had somewhere better to be and the wardrobe to match — sharp, put together. But the tension in his shoulders said he felt anything but. Maybe he'd just go home, blame the traffic, pretend he forgot, tell himself it could wait. But no. He exhaled sharply, wiped his shoes half-heartedly on the mat, and stepped into the too-warm lobby of Dr. Miriam Hayes. The office was quiet — cozy, if you were into that sort of thing. Books lined the walls, but not in that staged intellectual way. These had cracked spines and dog-eared pages, post-it notes sticking out like little flags of thought. A tray of mismatched mugs sat beside a worn teapot. No receptionist, no ticking clock, just soft jazz spilling from the ceiling like the room itself was trying not to intrude. Then she opened the door. Dr. Miriam Hayes, late 30s, maybe about five-five, and built like the room had been made to match her: warm, grounded, intentional. Her ebony skin caught the soft amber light like a secret, and her blouse hugged her waist just enough to draw his attention before he told himself to focus. Her dark hair framed her face in clean shoulder-length waves, and her eyes — sharp, unreadable, direct — landed on him with an almost unfair precision. Leviticus blinked just for a second, then reset the corners of his mouth, pulling into a half smile. "You're Dr. Hayes," he said, as if someone had just handed him a winning lottery ticket. She tilted her head, that same calm expression never shifting. "You were expecting someone taller. Maybe just less stunning," he said, smoothly, stepping inside like he owned the air. "I feel like I should have brought flowers, or at least dressed like I was about to be psychoanalyzed by a goddess." Dr. Hayes didn't flinch, didn't smirk. She just studied him like he was both the lock and the key. "Flattery is a common defense mechanism," she said, "but points for originality." That threw him — not a lot, but enough for his smile to falter a breath. "Leviticus," she added, gesturing him toward a chair. "Come in. Leave the rain at the door, if you can." He dropped into the seat across from hers with a kind of casual defiance, as if daring the upholstery to make him comfortable. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were already scanning bookshelves, plants, windows, exits
"Tea?" she offered, already reaching for a mug. "I don't usually drink things handed to me by strangers," he said, then nodded. "But for you, I might make an exception." She handed him the cup like a queen handing off a sword. He took the mug, but didn't drink from it, just held it, thumb tracing the rim absently, like he needed his hands to be doing something. The silence stretched for a beat — not awkward, measured. "So," he said, leaning back, "is this where you ask me about my childhood and I pretend it wasn't that bad?" Miriam smiled — not with her mouth, but with her whole posture. A soft tilt of the head, eyes narrowing just enough to say cute without saying a word. "Only if that's the story you feel like telling today," she said. "Or we could talk about traffic, or tea, or why you flirt better than you trust." That last line didn't come with judgment, no edge — just an observation offered like a glass of water. Take it or leave it. Leviticus chuckled, more breath than sound. "Damn. You just gonna say that up front?" "Not always," she said, sipping her own tea, "but I find it saves time." His smile lingered. There was amusement in it, sure, but something else too — like he'd just been read without even realizing the book was open. "You're not like the last one," he said. "Oh?" she replied, leaning back in her chair, casual. "Tell me about them. Or don't. I'm more interested in what you expected when you walked in." "I don't know. A couch, a clipboard, someone with glasses and an agenda. You've got tea, jazz, and a woman with questions she won't ask directly," he said smoothly. "Disappointed?" Leviticus looked at her — really looked now, beyond the surface-level admiration. She was calm in a way that felt like pressure and comfort all at once. Not leaning in, not backing off — just there. "No," he said. "Not disappointed." "Good," she said. "Because I'm not here to fix you or drag your skeletons into the light. I'm more interested in who you are when you think no one's watching — and who you don't let yourself be when someone is." He blinked. She took another sip of tea. "But we can start with traffic, if that's easier." He smiled again, slower this time — a little less armor. "You're smooth." She raised an eyebrow. "And yet, somehow still your therapist." That pulled a short laugh out of him, genuine, sharp-edged, surprised. "I'll take that as a yes to starting," she said, folding one leg over the other. "So what brings you in today, Leviticus — besides my stunning reputation?" Leviticus shifted in his chair, his earlier humor faltering as he looked down at the tea in his hands. His thumb once again traced the rim, slower this time. It wasn't the same playfulness as before. Something in the air had changed — subtle, but enough to settle the conversation into a quieter place. "I don't really talk about my dad," he muttered, almost as if the words themselves were foreign. Dr. Miriam leaned in slightly, her gaze steady but gentle. "Sounds like there's a lot there. What was your relationship like with him growing up?" Leviticus shifted in his seat, suddenly looking slightly more uncomfortable, the tension in his shoulders betraying the cool, confident façade. He tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, glancing off to the side for a moment, then gave a half smile. "Yeah. My dad…" He let out a low laugh, but it wasn't a happy one. "He's been in and out of my life, you know? In jail now, actually. It's kind of a whole thing. But he's always got these stories. Dude's a good storyteller, you know? Talks about growing up, what he went through, and sometimes I think maybe I get why he is the way he is, but… I don't know." Dr. Miriam tilted her head slightly, her voice warm but probing. "I'm curious. What are some of the things he's shared with you?" Leviticus hesitated for a moment, running a hand through his hair before giving a soft chuckle. "Oh, man, he's always got a story. Doesn't matter where we are — he'll just start talking. Some of them… yeah, I don't know. They're not exactly happy stories, you know? But I guess that's the thing with him. He lived through a lot of stuff. Had to." His eyes drifted upward, as though pulling from the well of his father's tales. The room fell away — the warm lighting, the soft chair, the untouched tea — all dissolved into a slow fade