Bare and Burning

I had a system and it had never failed me. Calm eyes, a steady voice, enough warmth to make a person feel safe without making them feel like I was their friend. Ten years of practice and I had walked every kind of broken person through that door without once losing my footing. I was good at what I did, maybe even a little proud of it. Then my 3 o'clock walked in eight minutes late and did not say sorry, and something about that small thing caught me off guard in a way I could not immediately explain. He did not knock either. The door just opened and there he was, tall and unhurried, like the concept of being late had genuinely never occurred to him as a problem. Dark suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt left open. He was not trying to look good. He just did. His eyes found me straight away and he looked at me the way you look at something you have not figured out yet but already decided is worth the effort. "Mr. Drake," I said, standing. "Callum." He sat down before I could even gesture to the chair. I let that go and sat across from him, keeping my expression easy. First sessions always told me something useful about a person before they said a single meaningful word, and this one was already telling me plenty. No nerves, no awkwardness, no looking around the room the way most people did when they were trying to decide how honest they were willing to be. He just sat there, relaxed, watching me like he had nowhere else he would rather be. That kind of calm in a first session was never really calm. It was armor. "So," he said. "How does this work?" "You talk, I listen, and we figure out together what brought you here." "I already know what brought me here." "People usually think that," I told him. "The real reason tends to show up a little later once the obvious stuff has been said." He looked at me for a moment without responding, and I noticed his jaw tighten slightly before it relaxed again. It was small, barely visible, but I caught it. "My doctor referred me," he said. "He sent you notes, I assume." "He did." "Then you have the picture already." "I have a summary," I said. "That is not the same as knowing you." He was quiet again. His eyes moved over my face slowly, not in a way that felt rude, more like he was genuinely trying to work something out. Most people in this office were nervous about being seen. Callum Drake looked like he was far more interested in seeing. "You specialize in intimacy," he said. "I do." "Then tell me what you call it when a man stops feeling anything real with a woman. Not nerves, not disinterest, just nothing. He goes through everything he is supposed to and comes out the other side completely empty." I did not rush to answer. I let the question sit between us for a moment the way it deserved to. "I call it a starting point," I said. Something shifted in his expression. Not a full smile but close enough to one that I felt it. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, and for the first time since he walked in he looked less like a man holding everything at a careful distance. "Alright, Cyrene Stone," he said quietly. "Then let us start." I noticed the way my name sounded coming out of his mouth. Unhurried, like he had already decided it was something worth saying correctly. I told myself it meant nothing. I almost believed it too.