The reluctant therapist

Prologue

The Reluctant Therapist and the Hotshot Lawyer

Royce didn’t want to be here.

By “here,” he meant anywhere near a therapy couch, an emotionally unhinged adult, or anyone who thought “self-care” involved deep breathing and a gluten-free diet. He had ditched his high-profile practice and was happily wasting away in a bookstore-slash-café where he could quietly judge people’s taste in paperbacks and avoid human feelings altogether.

And yet, somehow, he had ended up in this office again—unwillingly—and across from a man who looked like he belonged in a legal-themed romance novel, chapter one: “He objected… but not to love.”

Kadin Richards.

Lawyer. CEO material. Probably born wearing cologne. The man had the aura of someone who’d win arguments in his sleep, and the kind of bone structure that made artists weep and dermatologists suspicious. His shirt was too crisp. His jawline was too sharp. And his eyes—those annoyingly perceptive, steel-grey eyes—were now scanning Royce like a case file that needed dismantling.

“So you’re the therapist,” Kadin said, like he didn’t entirely believe it. His tone was part amusement, part curiosity, part… something else Royce didn’t want to think about.

Royce leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

There was a pause. Kadin’s eyes lingered—just a beat too long. Not quite inappropriate, but definitely inconvenient.

Royce noticed. He always noticed.

“I just assumed…” Kadin trailed off, then gave a small, cocky smile. “You’d be older. Or wearing shoes that matched.”

Royce looked down at his mismatched Converse. “Therapy isn’t fashion week, Kadin. I’m here to unravel your emotional constipation, not coordinate colors.”

Kadin laughed—soft and unexpected, like he didn’t mean to let it out. “Well, I like to be thorough. You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes.”

Royce arched an eyebrow. “Then I assume yours scream ‘rich boy with commitment issues and a God complex.’”

Kadin grinned, a little too pleased. “Only one of those is true.”

Royce didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. He could feel it already—the energy in the room shifting, just slightly. He wasn’t just being assessed. He was being… appreciated. Kadin was flirting. In the way confident men flirt: subtle, arrogant, and with just enough plausible deniability to retreat if it didn’t land.

But it landed. Oh, it definitely landed.

“I heard you were good,” Kadin said after a beat. “Didn’t realize you were also…”

He waved vaguely at Royce’s face. “You know. Good looking. For a therapist.”

Royce didn’t blink. “I’ll be sure to write that on my resume. Emotionally exhausted but mildly attractive.”

Kadin chuckled again, but this time it had heat under it. “So how does this work, exactly? Do I lay down and spill my deepest secrets, or are we starting with awkward small talk and slowly building to a mid-season emotional breakdown?”

Royce exhaled through his nose. “We start with boundaries. And mine is no client flirting before coffee.”

Kadin raised an eyebrow. “Noted. So, post-coffee then?”

Royce stared.

Kadin shrugged, looking a little too satisfied with himself. “Just trying to understand the process.”

Oh, he was trouble. Royce could see it in his smirk, the way he leaned in just slightly—like he was already used to being irresistible and was waiting for Royce to catch up. And Royce—tired, bitter, running on caffeine and apathy—wasn’t in the mood to be charmed. But something about this man—his confidence, his subtle cracks, his unspoken loneliness—was…

…well, interesting. Against his will, Royce found himself curious. Just a little.

But he’d never admit that.

“You’re not special,” Royce said flatly.

Kadin’s smirk widened. “I’m starting to think you might be.”

Royce sighed and reached for the notepad he hadn’t used in six months. “God help me.”

The session hadn’t even started, and already the walls were cracking