VANESSA
A simple kiss on the cheek. That's what lingered in my mind from last night's dinner. Not a kiss on the lips like I'd hoped for, not the passionate embrace I'd half-expected when Roman walked me to my car. Just a brief, hesitant press of his lips against my skin before he stepped back, uncertainty clouding his eyes.
I stared at the ceiling of Dr. Keane's waiting room, counting the small imperfections in the plaster. The dinner had started so well, filled with promise and possibility. Then came the jealousy, the tension, the familiar pattern we couldn't seem to break. By the time we'd finished dessert, the distance between us felt wider than ever.
"Vanessa?" Dr. Keane's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "I'm ready for you now."
I followed him into his office, a warm space with comfortable chairs and soft lighting. Unlike Dr. Alistair's sterile, clinical environment, Dr. Keane's therapy room felt like somewhere you could actually heal.
