Page 35 of Borrowed Pain
"What about you?" I asked. "What made you choose trauma therapy?"
"My father died when I was twelve. House fire—he went back for someone who didn't make it out."
Understanding clicked. "You became a therapist to process your own trauma."
"I became a therapist because I understood survivor's guilt. Also, I saw how my family dealt with loss. My brothers threw themselves into dangerous careers—fire, SWAT, and emergency medicine. They chose to run toward other people's crises instead of processing their own."
"And you chose to help people process theirs."
"I chose to help people find ways to live with the weight instead of being crushed by it. Different approach, same impulse to fix what's broken."
The parallels between us were obvious—two men who'd turned the trauma others experienced into professional missions, carrying other people's pain because we'd never learned to put down our own.
"Heavy conversation for lunch," I observed.
"Better than small talk." Miles wove his fingers together with mine. "For the rest of the afternoon, can we not be investigators? Can we be two people who had lunch and want to spend more time together?"
The server returned with a single plate—perfectly constructed tiramisu, layers of coffee-soaked ladyfingers, and mascarpone dusted with cocoa. She set it between us with two spoons and a conspiratorial smile.
"Compliments of the kitchen," she said.
Miles accepted the spoons without releasing my hand. "Thank you."
She disappeared back toward the kitchen.
"So we're a couple now?" I asked.
"What would you call this?" Miles lifted his spoon, cutting into the dessert. The first bite made him close his eyes, a soft sound of appreciation escaping between his lips.
"I don't know what to call it," I admitted.
"That bothers you. Not being able to categorize something."
"Everything else in my life has clear parameters. Sources, suspects, allies, threats. You don't fit into any of those categories."
"Maybe I don't have to."
The restaurant hummed around us—conversations in multiple languages, the distant clatter of kitchen equipment, couples sharing wine and ordinary Friday evening intimacy. Normal sounds that felt foreign against the backdrop of my usual isolation.
Miles ran his thumb over my knuckles where our hands rested beside the dessert plate. "You're analyzing this. You don't have to solve this like a case, Rowan."
"Solve what?"
"Whatever's happening between us. You don't have to analyze it until it makes sense or fits into your existing framework. Sometimes things are what they are."
I reached for my cup of coffee, and my fingers trembled.
"You're scared," Miles observed.
"I'm always scared. It keeps me alive."
"No, this is different. You're scared of wanting this."
The accuracy of his assessment stole my breath, but it shouldn't have been a surprise. Miles had advanced training in reading subtext.
"I haven't done this in a long time," I whispered.
"Done what?"
