The First Session
I should have known the moment Tamrine Matt walked into my office that he was going to be a problem, not because he was difficult, grief clients never are, not really. They’re raw, vulnerable, desperate for someone to witness their pain. No, Tamrine was going to be a problem because the second our eyes met, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Something I had no business feeling about a client.
It was a Tuesday morning in late March, and Behinton Town was draped in that peculiar grey mist that settled over Orata in early spring. My office was on the third floor of an old converted textile building, all exposed brick and tall windows that let in weak, filtered light.
I’d been a grief counselor for eight years, ever since my own loss had hollowed me out and then, slowly, taught me how to help others navigate the same darkness. I was good at my job. I maintained boundaries. I never, ever crossed lines. Until him.
Tamrine was beautiful in that devastating way that grief makes people, too thin, shadows under his eyes, but with an underlying strength that hadn’t been completely broken yet. He had dark auburn hair that fell across his forehead, green eyes that looked like they’d seen too much, and a mouth that I immediately imagined doing things I shouldn’t. He was maybe five-foot-nine, lean but with the kind of wiry muscle that suggested he’d been more solid before loss had carved him down.
He wore jeans and a grey henley that hung slightly loose on his frame, and he carried himself with the careful precision of someone who was afraid they might shatter if they moved too quickly.
“Dr. Rakk?” His voice was soft, hoarse, like he didn’t use it much anymore.
“Morbie, please.” I stood, extending my hand. “Just Morbie.”
His hand was cold when it met mine, but the touch sent heat straight through me. I held it a second too long before releasing, gesturing to the armchair across from my desk.
“Have a seat, Tamrine. Can I get you anything? Tea, water?”
“Water would be good.” He sat, his hands clasped between his knees, making himself small.
I poured him a glass from the pitcher I kept on the side table, using the moment to compose myself. This was insane. I didn’t react to clients this way. I couldn’t afford to.
I handed him the water and settled into my own chair, pulling out my notepad more for something to do with my hands than because I needed it.
“So,” I began gently, “your sister Maeve referred you to me. She mentioned you lost your husband about eight months ago?”
Something appeared across his face, pain, yes, but also something else. Anger, maybe. “Rathin. His name was Rathin.”
“Rathin,” I repeated, committing it to memory. “Tell me about him.”
Tamrine’s jaw worked. He stared at the water glass in his hands like it held answers. “Everyone wants me to talk about the accident. About how he died. No one asks me to talk about how he lived.”
“I’m asking about how he lived.”
His eyes met mine, surprised. Then, slowly, he started talking.
Rathin had been a photographer, passionate and chaotic and full of life. They’d met at a gallery opening seven years ago, and got married three years later. Rathin had been the kind of person who made everything brighter just by existing, loud laughs, terrible jokes, a habit of singing off-key in the shower that had driven Tamrine crazy in the best way.
As Tamrine talked, I watched him come alive. His hands moved as he described Rathin’s photos, the way he’d capture light like it was something solid. His voice gained strength. For twenty minutes, he wasn’t a man drowning in grief, he was a man remembering love.
Then he stopped abruptly, his face crumbling.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t—I shouldn’t have—”
“Hey.” I leaned forward, every instinct screaming at me to touch him, comfort him. I kept my hands on my knees. “You don’t need to apologize. This is exactly what you should be doing. Remembering him and honoring him.”
“It hurts.” His voice broke. “God, it hurts so much. Everyone keeps saying it’ll get easier, but it doesn’t. It just—it’s different pain every day. Some days I can’t breathe. Some days I forget for five minutes and then remembering feels like dying all over again.”
“I know.” The words came out rougher than I intended.
Tamrine looked up sharply. “Do you?”
I shouldn’t have said it. Therapists weren’t supposed to make it about themselves but something about the way he looked at me, desperate and searching, made me honest.
“Yes. I lost my partner five years ago. Lung cancer. So when I say I know, I mean it. I know that grief isn’t linear. I know about the good days that feel like betrayals and the bad days that feel like drowning. I know about the guilt of laughing again, of wanting things again, of living when they can’t.”
Tamrine stared at me, and in that moment, something passed between us. Recognition, understanding, a connection that had nothing to do with therapist and client and everything to do with two people who’d both survived losing their person.
“Does it get better?” he asked quietly.
“It gets different,” I said. “You learn to carry it. Some days it’s heavy. Some days you barely notice the weight. But it’s always there.”
“I don’t know if I want to carry it forever.”
“You don’t have to decide that now. Right now, you just have to get through today.”
He nodded slowly, and we sat in silence for a moment. Outside, I could hear the muffled sounds of Behinton waking up, car horns, distant voices, the eternal construction that plagued the old town center.
“Can I ask you something?” Tamrine’s voice was tentative.
“Of course.”
“Why did you become a grief counselor? After—after your partner?”
I set down my notepad. “I needed to make meaning out of meaninglessness. Because helping others navigate what I’d navigated made the pain feel less pointless. Because—” I paused, surprising myself with honesty, “—because I’m better at helping other people heal than healing myself.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “That’s the most honest thing anyone’s said to me in months.”
“I make a policy of being honest with my clients. Grief doesn’t have time for bullshit.”
This time his smile was real, brief but genuine, and it transformed his face.
Fuck, he was gorgeous.
I cleared my throat. “We’re almost out of time for today but I want to schedule you for twice a week if you’re open to that. You’re in the acute phase of grief, and more frequent sessions can help.”
“Okay.” He stood, and I did too. “Same time Thursday?”
“Thursday at ten. Perfect.”
We walked to the door together, and as I opened it for him, he paused.
“Morbie?” He looked up at me—I had about three inches on him. “Thank you. For asking about Rathin. For—for getting it.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
He left, and I stood in the doorway watching him disappear down the stairs, my heart doing things it had no business doing.
I closed the door and leaned against it, running my hands through my hair. This was bad. This was very, very bad.
I couldn’t be attracted to a client. I couldn’t. It violated every ethical guideline I’d built my career on. Tamrine was vulnerable, grieving, looking for connection in all the wrong places. My job was to help him heal, not to complicate his recovery with my own inappropriate feelings.
I returned to my desk and pulled up his intake form, forcing myself to think clinically. Tamrine Matt, thirty years old, worked as a graphic designer from home, no children, family support system consisting of his sister Maeve and a few close friends. Presented with symptoms of complicated grief, intrusive thoughts, avoidance behaviors, difficulty functioning in daily life.
Nothing in that file mentioned that he had eyes like sea glass or that his voice did something to my insides when it went soft and vulnerable. I had to get a grip. I had to be professional.
My phone vibrated with a text from my colleague and friend, Dr. Senna Cross, who had the office next door.
Drinks tonight? You look like you need them.
I glanced at the wall between our offices. Had she heard something? No, impossible. The walls were thick.
How do you know how I look?
Saw you in the hallway this morning. You had that brooding artist thing going on. Very tortured. Very you.
Despite everything, I smiled. Fine. Brennan’s at 8?
Perfect. Bring your drama.
If only she knew.
Thursday came too quickly and not quickly enough. I’d spent the past two days trying not to think about Tamrine, failing spectacularly, and feeling increasingly guilty about said failure.
I’d even considered referring him to Senna, but the thought of someone else counseling him made my chest tight with something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy, which was insane and also proved I was the absolute last person who should be treating him.
But I didn’t refer him out. I told myself it was because he’d connected with me, because changing therapists now would disrupt his progress. I didn’t examine the real reason too closely.
When Tamrine arrived for his Thursday session, he looked slightly better, still thin, still carrying that grief-weight, but his eyes were clearer. He wore dark jeans and a forest-green sweater that made his eyes even more striking.
“How are you doing?” I asked once we’d settled into our respective chairs.
“I had a good day yesterday,” he said, like he was confessing something shameful. “I worked on a design project for like four hours and didn’t think about—about everything. Then I felt guilty for not thinking about it.”
“That’s completely normal. The guilt is part of the process.”
“Does the guilt ever go away?”
“It shifts. You stop feeling guilty for living and start being grateful you can honor them by living fully.”
He absorbed that, nodding slowly. “Can we talk about something?”
“Anything.”
“The other day, you said you lost your partner. Can I—can I ask what happened? Or is that inappropriate?”
It probably was inappropriate, but fuck it, maybe sharing would help him. Maybe it would help me maintain appropriate distance by reminding us both why we were here.
“His name was Kieran,” I said. “We were together for six years. He was a musician, played violin, and taught at the conservatory here in Behinton. He was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, never smoked a day in his life. We had eight months from diagnosis to—to the end.”
“I’m sorry,” Tamrine said softly.
“The thing about anticipated loss versus sudden loss, they’re both hell, just different flavors. You get to say goodbye, but you also have to watch them disappear piece by piece. You got robbed of goodbye, but you also didn’t have to watch Rathin suffer.”
“Sometimes I’m grateful for that,” he admitted. “Is that terrible?”
“It’s human.”
“Did you—” He hesitated. “Did you ever think about dating again? After?”
My pulse kicked up. “Not for a long time. And when I did, it felt like betrayal. Like I was trying to replace something irreplaceable.”
“But you did eventually?”
“I’ve gone on a few dates over the years. Nothing stuck. I think—” I paused, treading carefully, “—I think part of me was still holding on. Using my work as a shield. Telling myself I was helping others when really I was hiding.”
“Are you still hiding?”
The question landed like a physical thing between us. His eyes were locked on mine, and there was something there, something that made my mouth go dry.
“I’m trying not to,” I said carefully.
The air in the room felt intense and heavy. I could hear my own heartbeat, could see the slight rise and fall of Tamrine’s chest as his breathing quickened. This was dangerous territory and I needed to redirect.
“But we’re not here to talk about me,” I said, forcing a professional tone back into my voice. “Let’s talk about your support system. Your sister Maeve, are you close?”
Tamrine blinked, like I’d broken a spell. “Yeah. She’s—she’s been incredible. Checking on me every day, bringing me food, forcing me to leave the house.”
“That’s good. What about friends?”
“Rathin and I had a couple friends. After he died, most of them didn’t know how to act around me, like grief was contagious. So they just stopped calling.”
“That happens a lot. People don’t know what to say, so they say nothing.”
“Yeah, well, it sucks.” There was anger in his voice now, and I was glad to hear it. Anger was better than numbness.
We spent the rest of the session talking about practical things—sleep patterns, eating habits, small goals for the week but underneath the clinical conversation, I could feel it: the pull between us, the awareness, the thing we were both pretending wasn’t there.
When our time was up and he stood to leave, he paused at the door again.
“Morbie? I’m glad it’s you. Helping me, I mean. I don’t think I could do this with someone who didn’t get it.”
“I’m glad too, Tamrine.”
He left, and I sat there for a long time, staring at the closed door, knowing I was in serious trouble.
Over the next few weeks, we fell into a rhythm. Tuesday and Thursday mornings, Tamrine in my office, peeling back layers of grief like we were excavating something precious and painful. He talked about Rathin, the good and the bad, because grief counseling isn’t about canonizing the dead. He talked about the accident, finally, describing the phone call that had shattered his world, the hospital, the terrible finality of death.
And I listened, guided, held space for his pain while fighting my growing feelings every single session because they were growing, undeniably and dangerously.
I looked forward to our appointments in a way that had nothing to do with professional satisfaction. I found myself thinking about him between sessions, wondering if he was eating, if he was sleeping, if he was okay.
I noticed everything: the way he twisted his wedding ring when he was anxious, the slight dimple that appeared when he actually smiled, the way his voice changed when he talked about something that mattered.
I was falling for my client, and I hated myself for it.
“You’re distracted,” Senna observed one evening when we grabbed dinner at our usual spot. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just a complicated case.”
She raised an eyebrow. Senna was forty-two, sharp as hell, with close-cropped black hair and a BS detector that rivaled a polygraph. “Bullshit. You’re brood-spiraling. I know the signs.”
“I’m not—” I sighed, setting down my fork. “Okay, I’m dealing with some ethical concerns about a client.”
“The young widower? Maeve’s brother?”
“How did you—”
“Maeve and I do yoga together. She mentioned she referred him to you.” Senna leaned back, studying me. “So what’s the ethical concern? Boundary issues?”
I didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“Morbie.” Her voice went serious. “Please tell me you’re not attracted to this client.”
“I’m not acting on anything.”
“That’s not the same as not being attracted to him.”
I dragged my hands through my hair. “I know. Fuck, Senna, I know. I’ve been trying to refer him out, but every time I think about it, I—I can’t. He’s actually making progress. Changing therapists now could set him back.”
“Or you’re making excuses because you want him in your office.”
The truth of it hit me hard. “Maybe both.”
“Jesus, Morbie.” She shook her head. “You know you need to refer him out. This isn’t sustainable. You can’t provide effective treatment when you’re compromised.”
“I know.”
“But you’re not going to do it.”
“Not yet. Not when he’s finally starting to open up, to process. Give me a few more weeks. Once he’s stabilized, I’ll—I’ll transition him to you or someone else.”
“A few more weeks,” she repeated flatly. “And in the meantime, what? You torture yourself twice a week while pretending you’re being professional?”
“Yes,” I said simply. “Because he needs help more than I need to feel comfortable.”
Senna sighed. “You’re a good therapist, Morbie. Maybe too good. You care so much about your clients that you forget to protect yourself.”
“That’s not—”
“It is and one day, it’s going to break you.” She reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “Just be careful. Please.”
I promised I would be but we both knew I was lying.
The shift happened during week six. Tamrine came in looking different, there was color in his cheeks, and he’d gained a little weight. He looked healthier, more present, and my heart did a complicated thing that was part professional pride and part something much less appropriate.
“You look good,” I said as he settled in.
“I feel better. Not good, not yet, but better.” He smiled, and it reached his eyes this time. “I actually went out with some friends last weekend. Maeve’s been pushing me to socialize again.”
“How was it?”
“Weird. They all treated me like I was made of glass but it was nice to be out of the house, to remember I still exist outside of grief.”
“That’s significant progress, Tamrine.”
“I know. And it’s because of you. Because of this.” He gestured between us. “You’ve helped me more than you know.”
The gratitude in his voice made me uncomfortable, not because it wasn’t warranted but because it reminded me of the power imbalance between us. He trusted me. He was vulnerable and I was sitting here fighting the urge to touch him.
“You’re doing the work,” I said. “I’m just holding space for it.”
“It’s more than that. You get it. You’ve been through it. When you talk about Kieran, I can see—I can see you still love him but you’re also here, living. It gives me hope that maybe I can too.”
Something in my chest cracked. “Tamrine—”
“Can I ask you something personal?”
Every alarm in my head went off. “You can ask. I might not answer.”
“Have you—have you thought about me? Outside of these sessions?”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I could lie. I should lie. I should have shut this down immediately and firmly but when I looked at him, really looked at him, I saw the same thing in his eyes that I felt every time he walked into my office. That want, that need and recognition.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “And that’s a problem.”
“Why is it a problem?”
“Because you’re my client, Tamrine. There’s a power dynamic here that makes any relationship between us inappropriate and potentially harmful to you. Because—” I forced myself to say it, “—because you’re vulnerable right now, and I won’t take advantage of that.”
“I’m not—I know what I’m feeling. This isn’t transference or—or some grief-induced attachment. I’m attracted to you. I have been since that first session.”
“Tamrine, you can’t—we can’t—”
“I know.” He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. “I know all the reasons we can’t but I can’t stop thinking about you. And I can tell you feel it too. The way you look at me sometimes, like you’re holding yourself back. The way your voice changes when you say my name.”
He was right. God, he was completely right, and that terrified me.
I stood, maintaining distance between us. “What you’re feeling is real, but it’s also complicated by your grief. You’re looking for connection, for something to fill the void Rathin left. That’s normal but acting on it would be a mistake for both of us.”
“How long do I have to wait?” He turned from the window, and there were tears in his eyes. “How long before it’s okay to want something again? To want someone?”
“There’s no timeline but right now, you’re still my client. And as long as that’s true, nothing can happen between us.”
“Then I’ll stop coming.”
Panic flared. “Don’t do that. Don’t sabotage your own healing because—”
“Because I want you?” He closed the distance between us, and I could smell his cologne, something clean and woody. “Say it, Morbie. Say you want me too.”
We were too close. I could see his green eyes, could count the freckles across his nose, could feel the heat radiating off his body.
“I want you,” I admitted, my voice rough. “But I can’t have you. Not like this. Not when it could hurt you.”
“What if I’m willing to risk it?”
“I’m not.” I stepped back, putting necessary space between us. “Tamrine, you need to leave. We can’t—I can’t continue this session.”
He stared at me for a long moment, hurt and frustration warring on his face. Then he nodded jerkily and grabbed his coat.
At the door, he paused. “I’m not coming back.”
“Tamrine—”
“I need time to figure out what I want. And I can’t do that with you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now.”
He left, and the door closing behind him sounded like an ending.
I stood there, alone in my office, and realized that trying to do the right thing felt exactly like doing the wrong thing.
My phone vibrated with a text from Tamrine, sent from the stairs probably.
I’m sorry. You’re right. I just—I needed you to know.
I stared at the message for a long time before typing back.
I know. Take care of yourself.
What I didn’t say: I’m already missing you.
What I didn’t say: This is going to destroy me.
What I didn’t say: Please come back.
He didn’t come back. Not that week. Not the next. I told myself it was for the best. That he needed space, that this was the professional thing to do but every Tuesday and Thursday morning, I found myself watching the door, hoping.
On week three of his absence, Maeve showed up at my office.
“Dr. Rakk? Do you have a minute?”
I gestured her in. Maeve was thirty-five, with the same auburn hair as her brother but cut short in a practical bob. She looked worried.
“It’s about Tamrine,” she said, sitting in the chair he used to occupy. “He’s—he’s regressing. He won’t leave his apartment, won’t answer my calls half the time. He said he stopped seeing you. Did something happen?”
I chose my words carefully. “We had a difference of opinion about his treatment. Sometimes clients need a break to process.”
“A break?” She looked skeptical. “Dr. Rakk—Morbie—he was doing so well. You were helping him. And now he’s back to where he was right after Rathin died. Worse, maybe.”
Guilt ate at me. “I can recommend another therapist. My colleague Dr. Cross is excellent—”
“He doesn’t want another therapist. He wants you.” She leaned forward. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, and honestly, I don’t need to know. But my brother is drowning, and you’re the only one who’s been able to throw him a lifeline. Please. Whatever it is, fix it.”
After she left, I sat in the growing darkness of my office and faced the truth: I’d let my feelings compromise Tamrine’s care. By pulling back, by letting him leave, I’d abandoned him at a critical point in his healing. My attempt to be ethical had resulted in harm. I had to fix this. But how could I do that without crossing the very lines I’d been trying to protect?
My phone was in my hand before I’d consciously decided to text him.
Tamrine. Your sister came by. She’s worried. I’m worried. Can we talk?
The response came twenty minutes later: There’s nothing to talk about.
Yes, there is. I handled things badly. You’re right, what you’re feeling is real. What I’m feeling is real. But we need to figure out how to navigate this without compromising your healing.
Three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Finally: How do we do that?
I don’t know yet but I want to try. Will you come in? Tomorrow, 10am? No therapy. Just talking as equals.
Another long pause. Okay. But if this is just you trying to convince me to see another therapist, I’m done.
It’s not. I promise.
I set down my phone and stared at the ceiling. I had no idea what I was going to say tomorrow. No idea how to fix this without making it worse.
I had to try because the alternative, losing Tamrine entirely, wasn’t something I could accept and that truth, more than anything else, told me just how far gone I already was.
