“That’s not yes.”
She takes a sip of coffee, buying herself time. “He helped me through a rough stretch after my streaming audience exploded. I started getting recognized everywhere. Nothing dramatic. I just … needed help learning how not to read every comment, answer every demand, and work myself into the ground.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It was.”
“Maybe calling him makes sense.”
She studies me over the rim of her mug. “That almost sounded like approval.”
“It was.”
“Careful. I might start thinking you’re emotionally evolved.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Her smile comes easier this time, and for a second, the morning feels almost normal. Coffee. Ocean. A woman teasing me in a kitchen. Then her phone buzzes with a notification. Kara reads it, and the change in her is immediate.
“Dr. Adrian Vale has an opening at ten-thirty.”
“That was fast,” I say.
“He does telehealth between regular sessions sometimes.”
“Good.”
She doesn’t answer.
At ten-twenty, she carries her laptop to the bedroom.
I look up from my tablet where I’ve been reviewing the perimeter map Sloane sent. “Want me outside the door or in the main room?”
Her fingers tighten on the laptop. “Neither.”
The answer comes too quickly. I go still. She hears it too, because color rises faintly in her cheeks.
“I mean, I’d like privacy. Actual privacy.”
“I wasn’t planning to listen.”
“I know.”
But she doesn’t know. Not really. And something about that irritates her, or embarrasses her, or both.
“It’s therapy,” she says. “I don’t want to feel like I have an audience.”
“You don’t.”
“Cole.”
My name in her voice is soft, but firm enough that I understand this is a boundary, not a request.
I nod. “I’ll be on the front landing.”
“You don’t have to leave the cottage.”
“I know.”
