Rain slips down the glass in quiet silver threads. Bella sits on the couch's edge, silk blouse damp and clinging to the soft curve of her collarbone, one loose curl trembling against the hollow of her throat with every shallow breath. Zavyen closes her file, the sound a low heartbeat. "You don't have to fight me, Bella," he says, voice velvet-rough. Her laugh is faint, brittle. "This is surviving." She lifts her gaze-storm-gray, fierce, pleading-and the room narrows to the space between them. "Every time you say I'm safe," she murmurs, lips barely parting, "it feels like a lie on my skin." He steps closer, slow, until his warmth folds around her. His breath grazes the curl at her cheek, stirring it; a shiver traces her spine. Beneath damp silk, her pulse flutters at the base of her throat, visible, vulnerable. "What do you need?" he asks, eyes tracing the raindrop's path down the window-then down her neck. "That you see me," she breathes, the words trembling. Her hand rises, hesitates, then settles on his sleeve. Warm wool stretches over firm muscle; the contact is light, yet it hums through them both, a quiet current of heat and restraint. His gaze drops to her mouth. The air thickens-breath, want, the ache of almost. She feels the shape of his hand at her waist, unspoken. He exhales, ragged, and steps back. "Rest," he says, voice scraped raw. The distance is mercy. The want remains. _______________________________ At Averlyn Institute, Bella Bennett is hidden from the world-diagnosed, confined, and silenced to protect her father's reputation. Everyone sees her as a lost cause except Dr. Zavyen Nozen, the new psychiatrist whose calm defies her fury. He listens when no one else will. She challenges every wall he's built. Their sessions become a charged dance between restraint and longing, truth and illusion. But as Bella's feelings start to take a new turn what will happen when their world will collide with eachother?