Damon's POV
The antiseptic scent of the clinic felt too familiar, too sharp, as I shifted in the chair in Dr. Grayheart’s office. My leg bounced, the nervous energy impossible to contain. Winter sat across from me, clipboard in hand, her posture professional yet attentive.
This wasn’t the first time she’d accompanied me to one of these appointments—after all, she wasn’t just my therapist; she was the voice in my head pushing me through the endless hours of rehab. But today felt heavier.
“How are you holding up?” Winter’s voice cut through my thoughts.
I glanced at her, her expression a careful mix of clinical interest and concern. “Fine.”
Her brow arched slightly, the same way it always did when she knew I wasn’t being honest. I sighed. “I’m fine… just ready to know, you know?”
Befor
