My mouth twitched before I could stop it.
He was a contradiction in wire frames and flushed skin—nervous enough to blush, sharp enough to cut me for noticing.
I wanted the cut.
“I read them because they made sense of things I couldn’t organize on my own,” he said. “Not because they were impressive. Because they were precise.”
Interesting.
“Precise how?”
A faint line appeared between his brows as he thought. “Most people want trauma to mean something redemptive. Your work doesn’t promise that. It just explains the cost.”
“And you’re comfortable with that cost?”
“I’m… familiar with it. I’m not sure comfort is really the right word.”
“And you think that qualifies you to work here?”
“No.” He exhaled through his nose. “But I don’t think qualification is the point.”
His fingers brushed his sleeve, thumb worrying the fabric once before he stilled, then nudged his glasses higher with a knuckle.
“I’m not here to feel smart about trauma. I like your work because you leave the damage intact. You don’t try to make it inspirational. You let it stay complicated.”
“You assume a lot, Mr. Quinn.”
“I do.” Color climbed his cheekbones. “But I also think assumption is unavoidable in this field. The difference is whether you’re honest about it.”
He paused there, breath measured, like he was deciding whether to stop or press further.
“What do you think this job actually requires, Mr. Quinn?” I leaned forward just enough to shift the balance between us. “And don’t give me an academic answer.”
For the first time, he looked away from me.
My body reacted before my mind could, jaw tightening and hands twitching. Every ugly instinct in me rose at once.
Look at me.
His gaze slid to the edge of my desk, to the legal pad and the uncapped pen, as if orienting himself to something concrete before answering.
When he finally looked up again, the focus in his eyes had sharpened, the softness replaced by something steadier, more deliberate.
“It requires restraint,” he said. “Not the performative kind. The kind that knows when to step back and when not to.”
Restraint.
Of course he would use that word while sitting in my office looking like somethingrestrainthad personally failed.
“And discretion,” he blurted. “Because the work doesn’t belong to the person doing it. It belongs to the people who trusted you with something they didn’t survive unscathed.”
“Most people say they can handle the uglier parts,” I challenged. “Very few of them understand what that actually costs.”
“You’ll have to excuse my bluntness, Professor, but life is fucking ugly. We don’t have to paint over the complicated parts with flowers and sunshine to try to make it something the world can stomach. It can just be ugly.”
I watched him for a moment, long enough for the room to stretch tight around the edges.
“And what happens,” I asked, “when the work starts to change you?”
