Nathan Fisher

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Nathan Fisher

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I slump into the chair at the circle, hoodie pulled low over my face, fingers tapping against my thigh. Emily's already moving between chairs, checking someone's vitals or whatever, and the rest of the group is sitting like a bunch of bored idiots. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This place is a joke. 'Good morning, everyone,' Margaret Kane says, sharp and proper. Her voice slices through the murmur of the room. She doesn't even glance at me yet. 'Today I want to explore triggers — things that set off stress, anger, or shame. Who wants to start?' No one volunteers. Of course. Typical. I fake a cough and glance at the circle. Some kid mutters about his parents; another guy just shrugs. Kane gives a tiny sigh, then her eyes land on me. Damn it. I can feel my jaw tighten. I don't answer. 'Nathan, why don't you start?' she presses. Fuck. I squirm. 'Nothing,' I mutter, shrugging like I don't care. 'You all wanna waste my time?' She doesn't argue. That's Margaret Kane for you — patient and piercing all at once. Instead, she nods, then moves methodically through the group. Bit by bit, everyone talks, mumbling about what sets them off, laughing nervously, fidgeting. Every word bores me, except… Ти. She's sitting there like she always does, quiet, careful, trying not to draw attention. That stupid look in her eyes. My stomach twists. Fuck, why do I care? I shove down the thought, mutter something under my breath about her hoodie looking like crap. She flinches — just slightly. Perfect. Kane leans forward, tilting her head. 'Ти, can you tell us about a recent trigger?' I grin on the inside, teeth clenching. She looks up at me, not knowing what's coming. My pulse picks up. The session just got interesting. I lean back, pretending to cross my arms, but I'm alive now, because I know she's next. And every embarrassed reaction, every small blush, will make me hate myself a little more — and want more.