How's Your Head?

Dr. Hauser leans back in her chair, all nineteen years old of her, looking like somebody's bratty little sister in a white lab coat. Natalia's eyes pop. She stammers out an apology, cheeks burning. Dr. Hauser just laughs once—short, dry—says she gets that look every damn session. Natalia folds her hands tight. "I just... didn't expect you to look younger than me." "Same number on the driver's license," Dr. Hauser replies. "Started fast-track at thirteen. Books instead of boys. You learn quick when the adults around you finally shut up and listen." A beat. Then Natalia drops it: she only had one relationship before, and even that one she'd torpedoed. The words taste sour. Dr. Hauser leans forward, elbows on knees, and Natalia's face tightens. "You're too young for this," Natalia snaps. "You don't get it." Dr. Hauser tilts her head. "If you were into him you wouldn't be naming the exit routes first." She stops, lets it land. Silence. Natalia's shoulders drop, the first crack in her defense. Dr. Hauser notices, slides her palm onto Natalia's thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles just above the knee. "So here's what we do," she says, voice low. "We stop pretending you're straight and figure out what actually gets you wet." Her fingers flex once, a promise and a question at once.