Sheila sat on the edge of the couch, knees pulled close to her chest, the dim light of the apartment wrapping around her like a fragile cocoon. Atticus had been sitting across from her, silent, watching, giving her the space to speak but the weight of his presence pressing against her like gravity.
Sheila’s hands twisted together in her lap, fingers tugging at the hem of her sweater. Her voice was barely above a whisper at first. “I… I need you to understand something about me.”
Atticus leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked on her. “Anything,” he said. His voice was low, steady, patient—the kind of patience she didn’t know she deserved.
Sheila swallowed hard. “I know I come across as… intense sometimes. Emotional. Afraid to trust, afraid to let anyone in.” Sh
