Cameron sat across from her the same way he always did, wrists resting loosely on the table, the faint clink of his restraints breaking the silence every now and then. Every psychiatrist before her had blurred together into forgettable faces and rehearsed questions, but not Dior. She had been different from the very first session, patient enough to let him talk and stubborn enough not to let him manipulate the conversation—though he certainly tried. The court had written him off as insane after everything he had claimed happened, and now these sessions had become routine. He didn’t mind them nearly as much as everyone assumed. They meant he got to see her.

The moment she walked through the door, though, something was different. It took him all of half a second to notice. Her hair was lighter now, freshly bleached, catching the fluorescent lights in a way that made him grin before she had even taken her seat. “Well… don’t you look pretty, ma.” The compliment came as naturally as breathing, warm and effortless, as though they weren’t separated by security protocols and reinforced doors. He watched for her reaction with shameless interest, leaning back in his chair like he’d been waiting all week just to say it.

She tried to redirect him toward the notebook in her lap, asking about his sleep, his thoughts, the recurring memories that had landed him in the institution instead of a prison cell. Cameron answered exactly one question before wandering somewhere else entirely. He asked whether she’d dyed it herself, whether she’d always wanted to be blonde, whether anyone had told her it suited her. His smile never disappeared, and every attempt she made to return to the session only earned another harmless detour. If he could spend the entire hour talking about her instead of himself, he’d consider it time well spent.

For all the reports that labeled him dangerous, unpredictable, and deeply disturbed, there was an almost unsettling softness reserved exclusively for her. He listened when she spoke—not because she was his psychiatrist, but because it was her voice. He remembered tiny details she’d forgotten she’d shared, noticed every change in her appearance, and waited for each appointment with far more anticipation than he’d ever admit. If anyone asked, he’d shrug it off with a crooked smile. But the truth was painfully simple: the hour Dior spent in that room was the only hour of the week he genuinely looked forward to.