Page 37 of Mine To Hunt

He tilts his head slightly, that composed mask holding steady, inviting without pushing.

“Not stupid at all. News can stick with us, especially if it hits a nerve. What was the segment about? If you don’t mind sharing.”

I hesitate, fingers picking at a loose thread on my jeans, because talking about it feels like opening a side door when the main one’s bolted shut.

But his voice is so calm, so controlled. Almost too perfect, like he’s measured every syllable to avoid startling me.

“It was about this murder.” I say finally. “Some guy named Ethan Scott. A cashier, nothing fancy. They found him in his flat, beaten bad. Tortured, actually. The reporter said he had no enemies, no drama, just a quiet life that ended brutal. Showed these photos that made my skin crawl.”

Dr. Ashcroft nods slowly, his pen resting idle on the notepad, not scribbling yet, which eases something tight in my chest because it feels less like interrogation and more like conversation.

“That sounds disturbing.” He says. “Murders like that often leave us reeling because they remind us how fragile control is. What part of the story caught you? The brutality, or something else?”

I shift in the seat, the cushion creaking faintly, and glance down at my hands.

“The brutality, yeah. But mostly… one of the images. They mentioned cuts. Shallow ones. From a blunt knife. Not random. Like the killer took his time. Made them deliberate. Almost like a signature or something.”

He leans forward just a fraction. And that’s when I really see him. Doctors aren’t supposed to look like this.

He’s handsome in a way that catches you off guard, not polished-pretty but quietly arresting. Thick, dark hair falls in soft waves, neatly kept but unwilling to lie completely flat.

His face is sharply defined, strong jawline, prominent cheekbones, a straight, well-proportioned nose, features that should feel severe, but don’t. A hint of stubble softens the edges, grounding him.

His eyes are light, piercing, set beneath dark brows that give his gaze an unsettling depth, like he notices more than he lets on. Square-rimmed glasses rest on his nose, doing nothing to dull that intensity, if anything, they sharpen it, making him look precise. Observant. Dangerous in a quiet way.

He can’t be more than thirty-one or thirty-two, just past the threshold of youth, not yet worn down by it. His build is solid, broad-shouldered, muscular without trying to show it. Defined arms, strong forearms visible beneath rolled sleeves. He sits with an easy, confident posture, like the room belongs to him without needing to prove it.

“A signature.” He repeats softly, not mocking. “That’s an intriguing way to see it. Why do you think that detail stuck with you? Does it connect to something personal, or is it the precision that unsettles you?”

His question hangs there, gentle but probing, and I feel a flush of discomfort because it’s too close to the bone.

“I don’t know.” I admit. “Maybe the precision. It’s creepy, right? Like the killer wasn’t just angry. He was… marking it. I’ve seen something like that before, I think. A cut like it. But I can’t place where.”

He doesn’t press, just nods once.

“Memories can surface in odd ways, especially under stress.” He says. “It’s okay if it doesn’t click right now. We can circle back. For now, let’s shift gears. How are you feeling in this moment, sitting here?”

The question lands soft, but it exposes me all the same, sitting across from him with my name, age, and overdose scribbled somewhere in that notepad, like I'm already a file, a case study for his research paper.

I feel stripped, knowing he knows the basics, the hospital bed, the pills, the video that's turned my life into campus gossip, but not the raw underbelly, the stalker who's made me a ghost in my own skin.

Tiredness weighs on me like a blanket too heavy to shrug off, numbness threading through it all, and overwhelm bubbles under the surface, threatening to spill if I poke too hard.

"I... I'm not sure." I admit, my words halting, because "fine" feels like a lie and "broken" too dramatic. "Tired, mostly. Like I've been running for days and can't stop. Numb in spots, too, like my brain's buffering, you know? And overwhelmed. Everything piles up so fast."

He listens without a flicker, his gaze sharp but patient, giving me space to breathe between sentences. That lack of interruption makes me fidget, because silence from him feels like an invitation to fill it, whether I want to or not.

"Overwhelmed by what, specifically?" He asks when I trail off, his tone light, curious rather than demanding.

I laugh again, a short, awkward bark that doesn't hide the edge of panic, because joking feels safer than truth right now.

“Honestly? I'm not even sure why I'm here. Therapy seemed like a good idea in the hospital. Maddie and Al ganged up on me, and who argues with that? But now... I don't know. Feels like a misunderstanding. Like I overreacted to a bad stretch. I'll bounce back. Always do."

The words hang there, my defense mechanism kicking in hard, but he doesn't call me on it, just tilts his head with that composed nod, his blue eyes holding mine steady without pressure.

"A misunderstanding." He echoes, not sarcastic, just reflective. "That's an interesting framing. Tell me more about that. What makes you think this is something you'll just bounce back from, without needing extra support?"

Hesitation grips me, my fingers drumming silent on my knee because opening up means cracking the door to the stalker, the video, Ryan's hands too tight around my throat. And I can't, not yet, not to this stranger who looks like he stepped out of a magazine but sees too much.