I called Sarah at midnight, pacing my tiny apartment like a caged animal.
"I did something stupid," I said the moment she answered.
"How stupid?" She sounded alert despite the hour. "Rate it one to ten."
"Eleven. Maybe twelve."
"Tell me you didn't sleep with him."
"I kissed him."
Silence. Then: "You kissed your psychopath patient. The one who beat someone half to death. The one who's been systematically manipulating you for weeks."
"When you say it like that—"
"How else should I say it? Nina, what were you thinking?"
I sat on my couch, phone pressed to my ear. "I wasn't thinking. That's the problem. We had dinner, and he was different. More human. And he told me he wanted to kiss me, and I should have said no, but I didn't, and now I don't know what to do."
"You end it. Both relationships. The therapy and the consulting. You report the boundary violation to your licensing board. You protect yourself before this gets worse."
"I can't. I need the money. And I just got Marcus into that coding program. And my dad's surgery is next week. I can't afford to lose this, Sarah."
"You can't afford not to. Nina, you're falling for him. I can hear it in your voice. You're defending him, rationalizing, compromising everything you believe in. That's exactly what he wants."
"What if it's not manipulation? What if he actually feels something for me?"
"Psychopaths don't feel. That's the definition. Whatever he's showing you is performance."
"But he said he felt something. When we kissed. He said it was different."
"Of course he did. Because telling you that makes you feel special, makes you think you're different from everyone else, makes you more emotionally invested. Nina, please. I'm begging you. Walk away before you can't."
I wanted to listen. Wanted to be smart and safe and protect myself.
But I was already in too deep.
"I have to go," I said. "I'll talk to you later."
I hung up before she could argue.
Saturday morning, I woke to seventeen missed calls from an unknown number and a dozen text messages from Zachary.
Nina, I'm sorry.
Last night was inappropriate.
I crossed a line.
Please call me when you wake up.
I need to explain.
Nina, please.
I stared at the messages, my chest tight.
He sounded desperate. Worried. Almost... human.
I called him back.
He answered on the first ring. "Nina. Thank you for calling."
"You said you needed to explain."
"I do. But not over the phone. Can we meet? Please?"
"Zachary—"
"I know. I know I'm asking too much. But I need to see you. To talk to you face to face. An hour. That's all I'm asking."
Against every instinct, I agreed.
We met at a coffee shop near my apartment. Neutral ground.
Zachary looked different. Tired. His hair wasn't perfectly styled. His shirt was wrinkled.
"You look terrible," I said, sitting across from him.
"I didn't sleep. I kept replaying last night, trying to figure out where I went wrong."
"You kissed me. Your therapist. That's where you went wrong."
"I know. And I'm sorry. I should have maintained boundaries. But Nina, I need you to understand something. I meant what I said. I felt something when I kissed you. That's never happened before. Never."
"Zachary, you're a psychopath. You don't feel—"
"I know what I am. I've lived with this diagnosis for twenty years. But last night was different. When I kissed you, there was this... sensation. In my chest. Warmth, maybe. Or tightness. I don't know what to call it. But it was real. And it terrified me."
I stared at him. "You're saying you felt emotion? Actual emotion?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe it was just physical response. But it was something. And I need to understand it. I need to understand you."
"This can't happen, Zachary. I'm your therapist. There are rules—"
"Then I'll find another therapist. I'll terminate our therapeutic relationship. But I can't lose you completely. Not now. Not when I'm finally feeling something."
My hands shook. "You can't just switch therapists in the middle of court-mandated treatment. The judge won't allow it."
"Then I'll finish the sessions. But after. When it's over. Can we... is there a possibility? For us?"
Us. The word hung between us, impossible and tempting.
"I don't know," I whispered.
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
He reached across the table and took my hand. His touch was warm, steady.
"Nina, I know I'm asking the impossible. But you're the first person who's ever made me feel like I might be more than my diagnosis. Like I might be capable of something real. Please don't take that away from me."
I wanted to pull my hand back. Wanted to be strong.
Instead, I held on.
"We can't do this while you're my patient," I said firmly. "If you want to pursue something after therapy ends, we can discuss it then. But not before. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
"And no more kissing. No more dinners that feel like dates. No more blurring lines."
"Understood."
"I mean it, Zachary. I'm already compromising too much. I need you to respect this boundary."
"I will. I promise."
We sat there, hands linked across the table, and I knew I was lying to myself.
This wasn't going to end when therapy ended.
This was just beginning.
And I had no idea how to stop it.
Even if I wanted to.
Which, God help me, I didn't.