Page 23 of Dreamscape Therapies

Vincent sniffles and tries to pull away after another sob, embarrassment creeping across his face.

“You don't have to be embarrassed.”

“I am.”

“People cry.”

He gives me a miserable look.

“Even Faeries.”

That gets the tiniest twitch of his mouth.

“I once saw a troll cry because someone discontinued his favorite coffee.”

Vincent finally laughs, barely, but it counts.

“Feelings happen,” I tell him.

He wipes his face with the heel of his palm. “Apparently.”

I stay exactly where I am. I don't rush him. I don't tell him to stop crying. I don't tell him everything will magically be okay. I just stay, and when I run out of things to say, I start humming quietly instead; an old melody my adoptive mother used to hum while gardening.

Eventually, Vincent's breathing evens out and he leans back against the couch with a miserable groan and scrubs both hands over his face.

I give him a moment before speaking.

“Well…” He gives me a dead-eyed stare. “That sucked.”

A surprised snort escapes him. “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“You look like you got hit by two trucks.”

He laughs again; it's tired and rough around the edges, but it's still a laugh.

My chest clenches at the sound.

When I'm sure the worst of the meltdown is over, I study him. His hair is a mess, and his beard is even worse, smushed flat on one side. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin pale from exhaustion, and dark circles sit beneath his eyes.

Even though he looks awful, he’s somehow still one of the most attractive beings I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

His shoulders are hunched, but they can't hide the broad muscles beneath his shirt.

I immediately redirect my thoughts. I need to be professional. I’m his therapist. He’s my client. I absolutely cannot be attracted to a client. He is definitely not attractive.

“Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “I still don't know exactly what's causing the yarn nightmares, but I think I know where we should start looking.”

Vincent's expression sharpens. “Where?”

“My brother.”

“Your… brother?” He’s clearly confused.

“Shane works for the Las Vegas Police Department.” I hesitate. “He's also a boogeyman.”

Vincent's eyebrows climb. “Of course he is.”

“I'm hoping he might have some insight into whoever is doing this. Or at least access to information I don't have.”