3:33

That lavender scent hit him the moment he walked in—same as always, like the room itself was trying to tell everyone who entered that everything would be okay.

Mateo Cross watched Margaret Wilkins shift in the leather chair across from him. Forty-seven years old, hadn't had a decent night's sleep in half a year, and it showed. Her hands were shaking as she gripped the armrests—he'd picked that chair specifically because it didn't make any noise. No squeaks, no creaks. When you're dealing with sleep issues, every little sound matters.

"So, how'd last night go?" Mateo kept his voice soft, pen ready over his notepad. After eight years as a sleep therapist, he could probably do this with his eyes closed. But people needed to feel like you were really listening, you know?

"Same old story." Margaret's voice came out thin, stretched. "Got into bed at eleven. Closed my eyes. Counted backward from a hundred, then tried two hundred. And then I just... laid there. Watching those damn numbers change on the clock."

"Did you get up at all?"

"No," she whispered.

Mateo leaned forward slightly. "Margaret, we've talked about this, remember? When you can't sleep, staying in bed just teaches your brain that bed equals being awake. The whole point of stimulus control is—"

"I know what the point is!" She snapped, then immediately pressed her palms against her face. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... I'm just so exhausted, Dr. Cross. I'm so fucking tired I can't think straight."

He set his pen down and glanced at the window behind her. Spring in Boston was showing off today—the whole skyline was glowing in that unseasonably warm April sunshine that made you think maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

But Mateo had given up on fresh starts a while ago.

"Have you been working on those thought exercises we discussed? You know, challenging the catastrophic thinking—the whole 'if I don't sleep, I'll lose my job' spiral?"

She let out this bitter little laugh. "What if they're not just thoughts, though? What if it's all actually happening? What if I really am losing everything?"

And honestly? He didn't have a good answer for that. Sleep was funny that way—the more you chased it, the faster it ran.

His phone started buzzing in his pocket. Once, twice, three times. He ignored it.

"Let's go over your sleep schedule," he said instead. "You're still sticking to that six-hour window?"

"Yeah."

"What's your sleep efficiency looking like?"

"Sixty-three percent," she said quietly.

Not bad, actually. Better than where they'd started. He scribbled a note—his handwriting had gone to hell lately. Ever since Aurora died, everything had gotten a little sloppier. Or maybe he just didn't care about neat penmanship anymore.

Aurora. Eight years old. Those brown curls that used to catch the light just right. Gone.

His phone went off again. And again.

"Dr. Cross?" Margaret's voice pulled him back.

He blinked. She was staring at him with those hollow eyes—the kind that made you wonder if her face even remembered how to smile anymore. He knew that look too well.

"I'm sorry, I need to—" He pulled out his phone. Seven missed calls from Eloise. His wife never called during sessions. Never.

"I've gotta take this," he said, already standing. "Just give me a second."

He slipped into the hallway, his footsteps echoing off the polished hardwood. Their practice was in this gorgeous old Boston brownstone—all crown molding and rooms that smelled like history mixed with fresh paint.

He closed the door and hit call back.

Eloise picked up immediately, her voice tight. "Mateo, you need to come home."

"What's wrong? Is it Ivy?" His nine-year-old—the one piece of his heart that was still beating right.

"Just come home."

"Eloise, please. Is she hurt? What happened?"

The pause felt like forever. Then: "She's fine. Physically, anyway. It's... Mateo, she hasn't slept in three days."

Three days. How the hell had he not noticed?

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" His voice cracked.

"I'm telling you now," she said, and hung up.

He stood there, catching his reflection in some dusty mirror the last tenant had left behind. Thirty-two years old, but those dark circles made him look ancient. Like someone who'd forgotten what happiness even felt like.

He should go back in. Make his excuses to Margaret. Reschedule properly like a professional.

Instead, his fingers were already texting his receptionist: Cancel everything today. Family emergency.

Her response was instant: Is everything okay?

He stared at the screen. How do you answer that? Nothing had been okay since the day Aurora drowned.