The receptionist's voice had been brisk, efficient. Dr. Moretti has a cancellation. Four o'clock. Take it or leave it.

You took it.

Now you're standing in a narrow corridor that smells of antiseptic and old paper. The door in front of you is half-open, a sliver of warm light spilling onto the linoleum.

You push it open.

The man behind the desk looks up from a chart. Green eyes. Broad shoulders testing the seams of a white coat. A face you'd know anywhere, even after months of stubbornly not looking.

The pen in his hand goes still.

For a long, terrible moment, neither of you move.