Chapter One: The Doorframe Dilemma
Caleb Morgan ducked beneath the doorframe, a habit formed over years of being too tall for the world around him. At six-foot-eight, he had long since accepted that nothing fit—clothes, furniture, or social expectations. The waiting room of this converted craftsman-style office was no exception. He stepped inside with careful precision, his broad shoulders brushing the frame as the door closed behind him with a soft click.
The room was warm, not in temperature but in tone. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, painting soft shadows across the hardwood floors. The air held a subtle citrus-clean scent, mingled with something warmer—vanilla, cedarwood maybe. A single clipboard sat on a low chair near the entrance, accompanied by a pen and an invitation: “Please complete and bring into session.”
Caleb hesitated. There was no receptionist, no hum of a busy office. Just a quiet stillness and the distant ticking of a clock. He shifted his weight and picked up the clipboard, eyeing the petite chair beneath it. Bracing himself, he lowered his massive frame onto the edge, knees bent awkwardly, thighs spreading wide despite his effort to contain them.
He glanced around and caught sight of a mirror across the room—unavoidable, angled just enough to reflect his form. It was always the same: the awkward sprawl, the too-tight shirt, the faint scowl he didn’t realize he wore. He tried to look away, but his gaze lingered. There was something intimate and accusing about his reflection, as if it echoed the thoughts he worked so hard to bury.
The quiet broke.
“First-time nerves?”
A voice—low, rich, warm—came from the hallway. Caleb turned.
She stood there, leaning lightly against the frame of an open door down the hall. She was 5′7" and full-bodied, with a soft apron belly that rested gently beneath the curve of her vintage Joan Jett t-shirt, tucked into high-rise black jeans that hugged her wide hips unapologetically. A blush-colored cardigan draped loosely over her arms, swaying with each step as she moved forward. Her presence wasn’t hesitant—it was rooted, magnetic. Her curls were pinned back loosely, and her smile wasn’t the polite kind, but grounded. Steady. Inviting.
He blinked.
“I-yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Didn’t expect anyone yet.”
“You’re early. That’s either anxiety or you’re just naturally punctual,” she said, walking forward. “I’m Grace.”
He rose slowly, conscious of how large he looked in contrast to the room, the furniture, and her.
“Caleb.”
Her handshake was firm. No hesitation. No shrinking.
She gestured toward the hallway. “Come on in. We’ll get started.”
He followed, steppingcarefully. Her office door stood open, inviting. The same warm tones and plant-lined bookshelves greeted him, with a couch that looked mercifully sturdy.
As he stepped into the room, he noticed framed lyrics on the wall—bold letters from women he recognized. Lizzo. Tracy Chapman. Erykah Badu. Joan Jett.
“Nice to see music that doesn’t shy away from being loud,” he said.
Grace glanced over her shoulder, grinning. “Loud and honest—that’s my brand.”
