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When Sergei got home last night covered in blood, eyes red and clothes soaked through, wearing an unhinged smile that didn’t belong on a human face, terror clawed its way through me.

So, while I shoved him towards the shower and peeled his ruined shirt from his skin, I told him we should try therapy.

We both know we’re fucked up in our own ways. But if I want us to work, I have to give therapy a shot again.

While, I’m not actively searching for ways to kill myself, I don’t know about the future.

Yes, I want to live. I want to build a life that’s his and mine. A life where our past remains exactly that—a past.

A life where our scars are proof of survival instead of chains that keeps us trapped.

“Behave.” I place my hand on his thigh and he instinctively rests his on top of mine. He smirks but it falters when he finds my glare aimed at him.

“Before we talk about the difficult things, I want to understand how the two of you function together. What does a good day look like?” She asks and Sergei’s thumb starts rubbing over my skin in small, smooth circles.

“When she texts me, she cannot find her clothes after hiding them.” He cuts me a sweet glare. “Just because she’s too afraid to admit she misses me and jumps in my arms when I get home.” He adds and my heart warms at the softness in his expression.

“A good day.” I murmur quietly. “When he sleeps through the night.” Sergei’s hand stills for half a second.

“And when she eats without me reminding her.” He counters directly, his voice low.

“So,” Isabella says carefully. “The two of you take care of each other.”

“Obviously.” Sergei answers immediately.

She nods, almost as if she’s assessing every movement, her eyes flickering to where Sergei’s hand rests over mine. “And what does a bad day look like?

My throat tightens. “I shut down sometimes.”

“She disappears.” Sergei corrects instantly, his jaw hardening. “Locks herself in the bathroom, hides from me, and runs away.”

“Because I don’t want to burden him.” I whisper.

“Burden me?” his head snaps towards me so quickly it startles me. “Elara. Baby, you could never—”

Dr. Isabella intervenes before his voice can rise further. “And when that happens.” She says, looking at him cautiously. “What do you feel?”

Sergei leans back into the couch. “Anger.”

“Only anger?”

The room falls quiet. Sergei’s thumb keeps dragging over my knuckles, repetitive and restless now.

His head snaps in my direction, then he exhales sharply. “Fear, I feel like I’m failing her. Like I’m losing control all over.”

Dr. Isabella doesn’t react instantly. “And when you say losing control,” she asks, using that soft voice therapists have. “What does that mean to you?”

Sergei’s jaw tightens. “It means it starts again.” He says.

My breath catches slightly, but I don’t interrupt.

He swallows once. “The panic. The noise in my head. The need to do something stupid. The impulse to tie her to my bed and—” he halts, breathes, his hand leaving mine as he rubs it over his face and turns to look away.

Dr. Isabella doesn’t flinch, but her voice lowers a fraction. “Something stupid?”

Sergei stares at the floor for a long moment. His shoulders are tight, like he’s holding himself in place by force.

“I don’t always trust myself.” He admits finally. “I’m afraid if I do t-that, I’ll become like my father.”