Chapter 4: The Doctor's Dilemma
The call started like all the others. Aria took a deep breath, put on the easy, stable voice she’d perfected, and said, “Hi, Dr. Vance.”
“Aria.” Dr. Vance’s tone was warm, practiced. “How are we today?”
“Okay,” she said, drawing her knees up on the couch. Levi, across the room, stared fixedly at a manual on engine torque specs. He hadn’t turned a page in five minutes. “Tired. Took a long bus ride yesterday.”
“To Columbus, you mentioned in your text. To see your… friend.” The pause was deliberate. Aria could picture him in his bland, beige office, steepling his fingers. “How did that go?”
She glanced at Levi. His profile was a rigid line. “It went. He’s… he’s really here. It’s him.”
“That must feel very validating,” Dr. Vance said, his voice dipping into that therapeutic softness that always set her teeth on edge. “After all this time believing he was… gone. Tell me about the reunion.”
Aria’s palms were slick. She wiped them on Levi’s sweatpants. “It was intense. Emotional. We talked. A lot.”
“About the past? About why he disappeared?”
“Yeah. It’s… complicated. Really complicated, doctor.”
“Complicated how?” The question was a gentle probe, a scalpel seeking a seam.
Aria felt the trap tightening. She couldn’t explain the how. Not without sounding utterly, certifiably insane. “Just… life stuff. From before. Things that got in the way.”
“I see.” The sound of a pen tapping on paper came through the line. “And have you discussed your hospitalization? Your ongoing treatment plan? Does he understand the… fragility of your situation?”
The word ‘fragility’ snapped something in her. “I’m not fragile.”
“Aria,” Dr. Vance sighed, the sound heavy with faux-concern. “Your impulsive trip, your refusal to provide any concrete details about this individual… these are not the actions of someone operating from a place of stability. We’ve worked very hard to build a framework of wellness for you. This feels like a regression.”
She closed her eyes. “It’s not a regression. It’s the opposite. Seeing him… it’s grounding me.”
“Is it?” Another tap of the pen. “Your medication is with you?”
“Yes. I took my evening dose ten minutes ago.”
“And the environment? Is it safe? Are there… triggers?”
Her eyes flew open. She looked directly at Levi. His head had turned just slightly, his ear cocked toward the conversation. “It’s safe. It’s very clean.” Almost a hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. “Extremely clean.”
“Hmm.” A long, considering silence. “Aria, I’m going to be frank. I have significant concerns. An abrupt, cross-state journey to see a man you’ve spoken about in primarily… delusional terms… for two years, coupled with this new opacity… it raises red flags. Substantial ones.”
A cold knot formed in her stomach. “What are you saying?”
“I think, for your own safety, we should consider a brief return to inpatient care. A reassessment. A stabilizing environment where we can—”
“No.” The word ripped out of her, sharp and panicked. “No, that’s not necessary. I’m fine. I’m safe. I’m taking my meds.”
“Aria, sweetheart,” Dr. Vance said, his voice dripping with a paternal condescension that made her skin crawl. “You made a very erratic decision staying in Ohio. And you’re refusing to give the details as to why. From a clinical perspective, this is concerning behavior. A seventy-two hour hold would allow us to—”
“But… but I haven’t done anything. I’m taking my meds as scheduled. I-I… why? Because I won’t tell you his middle name?” Her voice was rising, fraying at the edges. Levi had set the manual down. He was watching her now, his gaze laser-focused.
“It’s not about a name,” Dr. Vance said, a hard edge creeping into his therapeutic calm. “It’s about a pattern of secrecy surrounding a figure who has, until now, existed primarily in your traumatic ideation. Your ‘Levi’ has been a coping mechanism, Aria. A powerful one. And now you’re claiming he’s physically manifested. Without evidence, without allowing me to verify his existence or his role in your life, this looks like a psychotic break.”
Tears of frustration blurred her vision. “He’s not a coping mechanism! He’s sitting right here!”
“Aria, please. You’re shouting.”
Levi stood up. He moved silently, crossing the room in three swift strides. He held out his hand, palm up, for the phone. His expression was utterly flat, but his eyes were dark storm clouds.
She stared at his hand, then at him. The doctor was still talking, suggesting she pack a bag, that he could arrange for a local facility in Columbus to take her.
Wordlessly, her hand trembling, Aria passed Levi the phone.
He put it to his ear. His voice, when he spoke, was low, perfectly controlled, and colder than the steel of his countertops. “Doctor.”
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. Aria could faintly hear Dr. Vance’s confused sputter. “Who… who is this?”
“Levi Ackerman.” He stated it like a fact of thermodynamics. “You are speaking to me. You have attempted to institutionalize Aria based on a false premise. I am the premise.”
Another pause. Then Dr. Vance’s voice returned, trying to regain professional footing but tinged with unmistakable shock. “Mr… Ackerman. This is… highly irregular. Aria has never… I was not given to understand you would be present.”
“Clearly.” Levi’s eyes locked with Aria’s. “You believe I am a delusion.”
“Given the history, the lack of any prior contact, the nature of the trauma—” Dr. Vance began, flustered.
“I will provide verification,” Levi cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Driver’s license. Social Security card. My mechanic’s license from the state of Ohio. Employment records. Photographs with her, from today. You will receive digital copies within the hour. You will then update your records to reflect that I am a tangible person, not a… traumatic ideation.” He made the term sound like trash on his clean floor.
“Mr. Ackerman, even if you are who you say you are,” Dr. Vance said, recovering with a slimy sort of curiosity, “the power dynamics here are a concern. Aria is my patient. She is in a vulnerable state. Her attachment to you is clinically significant and potentially unhealthy. Her safety is my primary—”
“Her safety is mine,” Levi stated, absolute finality in every syllable. “Your concern is noted. Your suggestion of hospitalization is rejected. She will remain here. Her care will continue as outlined, with her medications. You will have your weekly call. That is the extent of your involvement.”
“I could file a report with local authorities,” Dr. Vance countered, but his voice lacked conviction. It was a bluff. Aria could hear it, and she knew Levi could too.
“Do it.” Levi’s lip curled. “They will find a consenting adult woman in a clean apartment, taking prescribed medication. They will also find me. With all my paperwork in order. Your report will accomplish nothing, except to waste everyone’s time.” He paused, letting the threat hang. “Unless your interest is not purely clinical. Is it?”
The line was so quiet Aria thought it had disconnected. When Dr. Vance spoke again, his voice was tighter, a forced neutrality over clear displeasure. “My interest is my patient’s well-being, Mr. Ackerman.”
“Good. Then her well-being is currently being managed. You will have your verification. Do not suggest hospitalization again without direct, observable cause. Am I understood?”
Another pause. A defeated, irritated exhale. “I… need that documentation before our next session.”
“You’ll have it tonight.” Levi ended the call without another word. He handed the phone back to Aria. His hand was perfectly steady.
She took it, her own hands shaking violently. She stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. “You… you threatened him.”
“I stated facts.” He walked to the small desk in the corner, pulling open a drawer. He retrieved a small, fireproof lockbox. “He was using your past to control your present. That ends now.”
He opened the box. Inside were his important documents, all meticulously organized in clear plastic sleeves. Ohio Driver’s License. Social Security card. A certified copy of his birth certificate. His mechanic’s license. Even a pay stub from the garage. He laid them out on the desk like a surgeon’s instruments.
“He can’t do anything?” Aria asked, her voice small.
“Not unless you pose a danger to yourself or others. You have not. You are medicated. You are in a stable environment. You have a…” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “guardian present. His professional opinion is overruled by observable reality.”
He picked up his phone—a basic, flip-style thing—and began methodically photographing each document. The flash lit up his focused face in the dim room. “He enjoyed it,” Levi said, not looking up from his task. “The control. Talking down to you. The idea of you being unwell and dependent on his guidance. He did not enjoy being challenged.”
Aria wrapped her arms around herself. “He’s always been like that. Condescending. But he was the one covered by my insurance…”
Levi finished photographing, his thumbs moving swiftly over the number pad. “Insurance can be changed.” He looked at her. “Do you want to continue speaking with him?”
The question surprised her. “I… I don’t know. He’s a creep, but… he knows my history. Starting over with someone new…”
“Understood.” Levi sent the files. The soft whoosh of the sending message punctuated the quiet. “For now, he remains. On a leash.”
He put his phone down and walked back to her. He didn’t sit, just stood before her, looking down. The adrenaline was leaching from her body, leaving her hollow and trembly. The flat, cold fear of the 72-hour hold, the white walls, the locked doors—it had come so close.
“He can’t take me away,” she whispered, confirming it to herself.
“No one is taking you anywhere,” Levi said. His voice was bedrock.
She believed him. In that sterile, locked apartment, with his military-precision and his hidden gun and his perfectly filed paperwork, she felt, for the first time since waking up in this bewildering future, truly safe. It was a terrifying kind of safe. It was a cage built by the most dangerous man she’d ever known, but it was a cage with him inside it.
He studied her face, reading the aftermath of panic. “Do you need anything?”
She shook her head, then nodded. “Water?”
He fetched her a glass, watching as she drank it all down. When she was done, he took the glass, washed it, dried it, and put it away. The routine of it was calming.
“The call is over,” he stated. “It is handled. You are not going back to a hospital.”
He said it with such concrete finality that the last of the fear unclenched its fist from around her lungs. She breathed out, a long, shaky sigh.
Levi returned to the couch, not sitting next to her, but picking up his manual again. He didn’t open it. He just held it, a silent, solid presence in the flickering LED light. The static hum of the walls seemed quieter now, drowned out by the simple, profound fact of his reality. He was not a ghost. He was a man. And he had just drawn a line in the sand with the entire modern world, daring it to cross.
Aria pulled his borrowed shirt tighter around her. The scent of him—clean detergent and something uniquely, essentially Levi—wrapped her up more surely than any blanket. The doctor’s voice, oily with false concern, still echoed in her mind. But underneath it, a new sound was growing stronger: the steady, reliable silence of the warrior beside her, scanning the perimeter for threats, finding one, and systematically dismantling it. For her.
The silence after the call wasn’t empty. It was thick with the echo of Levi’s voice, cold and final, and the ghost of Dr. Vance’s threats. Aria sat very still, her nerves feeling scraped raw, her thoughts spinning on a dark carousel of white walls and locked doors.
Levi watched the last of the panic recede from her eyes. He saw the slight tremble in her hands, now clenched in the fabric of his sweatpants. The manual was forgotten on his knees. He set it aside on the couch cushion with a quiet, precise motion.
“He’s scared of you,” she finally said, her voice a hushed thing in the quiet room.
“Good.” Levi stood. He moved to the kitchen, not with his usual martial efficiency, but with a slower, more deliberate pace. He filled the kettle, set it on the stove. The click of the gas igniter was a soft punch in the quiet. “Fear is a deterrent. He will not push again.”
“He said ‘sweetheart’,” Aria murmured, almost to herself. She wrapped her arms around her knees. “He always does that. Talks to me like I’m a confused child.”
Levi’s back was to her, his shoulders tensing slightly under the black cotton of his shirt. He didn’t reply. He took two mugs from the cupboard. The quiet clink of porcelain was a gentle sound.
“You called him ‘doctor’,” she said, watching him. “You were so… formal.”
“He holds a title. I acknowledged it. Nothing more.” Levi opened a tin, scooping loose-leaf tea into a small pot. His movements were measured, ritualistic. “He does not deserve respect. He deserves accurate information. I provided it.”
The whistle of the kettle cut the air. He poured the steaming water, the rich, earthy scent of black tea unfurling into the room. It was a familiar smell, from before. From nights in candlelit bunkrooms and stolen moments of respite. He let it steep, watching the water darken.
He brought the mugs over, setting hers on the low table in front of her. He didn’t sit back on the opposite chair. Instead, he lowered himself onto the couch beside her, leaving a careful space between them. He cradled his own mug in both hands, staring into its depths.
“You should drink it,” he said, not looking at her. “The heat. It helps.”
She reached for the mug, her fingers brushing his as he steadied it. A tiny, electric point of contact. She pulled the warm ceramic into her lap, letting the heat seep into her bones. “Thank you. For… handling that.”
He gave a single, slight nod. He took a sip of his tea, his eyes trained on the wall of maps across from them. The red strings seemed to thrum in the low light. “The threat is neutralized. The perimeter is secure. You can… decompress.”
A soft, almost imperceptible shift in his language. From a commander’s report to something gentler. She sipped the tea. It was strong, unsweetened, exactly how he always made it. The familiar taste was a tether to a thousand other moments, safer moments.
“It’s just like you remember,” she said softly, watching his profile.
“The tea?”
“Everything.” She leaned her head back against the couch. “The way you move. The way you solve a problem. Direct. Absolute.” She glanced at him. “It’s comforting.”
His jaw tightened. A flicker of something—pain, guilt—crossed his features before it was sealed away. “It should not have been a problem you faced alone. For two years.” The words were rough, carved out of a deep place of self-reproach.
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.” He said it with absolute conviction. “I failed to locate you. That is a tactical failure. The consequence was your suffering. That is unacceptable.”
“Levi…” She put her mug down, turning her body toward him. The old nickname, ‘sweet girl’, sat on her tongue, but it felt too fragile, too loaded with the past, to speak aloud. “You’re here now. That… matters. More than anything.”
He finally looked at her. His gaze, usually so sharp and assessing, was softened at the edges. The harsh LED light from the kitchen caught the silver in his dark hair, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Does it?”
“Yes.”
He held her look for a long moment, then his eyes dropped to her left shoulder, where the scar lay hidden beneath layers of fabric. “The medication,” he said, his voice lower. “You said it helps. With the… gray.”
“It does. It makes the edges less sharp. The weight less heavy.” She drew in a breath. “Most days.”
“And today?” he asked. The question was blunt, but the intent behind it was not. He was taking inventory. Assessing her state.
“Today is… a lot.” She managed a small, shaky smile. “A good lot. And a terrifying lot. But mostly… real. Having you here is real. That cuts through the gray better than any pill.”
He absorbed this, his brow furrowing slightly. He placed his mug next to hers on the table. The action seemed deliberate, a setting aside of barriers. He shifted on the couch, turning to face her more fully. The space between them diminished by a few intentional inches.
“You asked, before,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “if I knew everything. From the public records.”
She nodded, remembering their earlier conversation, the one that had led to her staggering confession.
“I saw the pictures,” he continued. “The coffee shop. The… friends. The trips.” He paused, choosing his words with a care that felt monumental. “You smiled. In many of them. It never reached your eyes. Not like before.”
Her breath caught. He had seen that. He had looked that closely.
“I studied them,” he admitted, the confession seeming to cost him. “The angles. The light. I looked for signs of coercion, of threat. I found only a profound… absence. In you. It was worse than seeing you cry.”
Aria felt a tear escape, tracing a warm path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. “You could see that?”
“It is my job to see what others miss,” he said quietly. “And you… you were always my primary objective.”
The past tense hung in the air, wrong and heavy. He corrected himself, his voice firming. “Are.”
He reached out then, not with the clinical touch from earlier to examine her scar, but slowly. His hand hovered near her cheek, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t move. His thumb brushed the tear away, the calloused pad of his finger rough and infinitely gentle against her skin. The gesture was so tender, so unlike the Levi of the refrigerator door and the whispered threats, that her heart clenched.
“Sweet girl,” he murmured, the old endearment falling from his lips naturally, quietly, as if he’d been holding it back for years. It wasn’t patronizing. It was a relic, a precious piece of their shared language, dusted off and offered back to her.
A soft sob escaped her. She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing. His hand cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “I’m here,” he said, the words a low vibration she felt more than heard. “The noise stops now.”
She nodded, unable to speak. He leaned forward, slowly, and pressed his forehead against hers. It was a gesture of closeness, of shared breath, of a connection that needed no more words. His eyes were closed. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of tea and clean cotton and him.
They sat like that for a long time, in the quiet hum of the apartment, as the evening deepened into night outside the blackout curtains. The world with its doctors and its threats and its lonely, gray days was locked outside. In here, there was only this: the solid reality of him, the soft press of his forehead against hers, the promise in two simple words.
I’m here.
Finally, he pulled back, just far enough to look at her. His hand stayed on her face. “Sleep,” he said, his voice husky. “Actual sleep. I will be here.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
He stood, offering her his hand. She took it. He didn’t let go as he led her to the bedroom. He pulled back the crisp white sheets, a silent instruction. She climbed in, still wearing his clothes. He hesitated for a second, then, moving with a new kind of certainty, he walked around to the other side of the bed.
He didn’t ask. He just lifted the covers and slid in beside her, lying on top of the sheets, his back to her. He was a solid, warm line in the darkness, a barrier between her and the door. “Perimeter,” he said, the word a soft grumble in the dark.
Aria turned onto her side, facing his back. The tension that had coiled in her shoulders since the phone call, since the bus ride, since the last two long years, began to slowly unravel. She inched closer, until her forehead was nearly touching the space between his shoulder blades. He didn’t move away.
“Levi?” she whispered into the darkness.
“Hm.”
“Is this… more like how it was before?”
There was a long pause. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
“No,” he said, his voice a low rumble she felt through the mattress. “It’s better. Before was a war. This is a choice.”
She let the words settle over her, warm and heavy as a blanket. Her eyes drifted closed. For the first time in memory, the quiet behind her eyelids wasn’t a void. It was a space held secure by the steady, breathing presence of the man beside her. She listened to that rhythm until it became her own, and slipped, finally, into a deep and dreamless sleep.