"Yeah."
He drops his hand. Steps back. Runs his palm over his jaw.
"Think about it, Hope."
He gets in his truck and pulls away, and I stand in the parking lot with my fingers pressed to my mouth, still tasting coffee, still feeling his hand on my neck, still not sure I can drive.
I'm still thinking about it the next morning when I walk into Greenridge for Friday's session, and I'm still thinking about it when the session runs long.
Kent is there when I arrive, unexpected, reviewing documents with Jude in the supervised meeting area. I catch the tail end of their conversation—something about filing deadlines and procedural windows—before they both look up.
For a moment, all three of us exist in the same frame: Jude at the table, Kent standing beside him, me in the doorway.
"Ms. Turner." Kent's voice is neutral. "I didn't realize you were scheduled."
"Weekly check-in. It's on the calendar."
"Of course." He straightens, gathering his papers. "I was just leaving."
But he doesn't leave. He stands there, papers in hand, looking at me with an expression I can't read. Want, maybe. Or frustration.
"Fridays used to be the worst part of my—" He stops. Shakes his head. "Never mind. Irrelevant."
"Kent."
He's already moving toward the door. "I'll let you work."
I sit down across from Jude, pull out my notebook, and try to settle in.
"Does it bother you?" I say.
"Does what bother me?"
"People watching. People figuring it out."
He considers the question with genuine thought.
"No," he says. "They can watch all they want. It doesn't change anything."
"What doesn't it change?"
His eyes meet mine, green and clear and certain.
"That you're mine. That I'm going to get out of here. That when I do, I'm not letting you go."
Those words land in my chest and stay there. Heavy and warm and I don't want them gone.
Chapter 17
Jude
Kennedy's office smells like leather and ambition. The diplomas crowd the wall behind his desk—Harvard, Johns Hopkins, a fellowship certificate from some institute I've never heard of—positioned so every patient who sits in this chair has to stare at them for fifty minutes.
I've been staring at them for three years.
"Let's talk about progress," Kennedy says, clicking his pen. Click. Click. Click. "Your behavioral scores this quarter have been exemplary."
"Thank you."
