Chapter113 – Perfectly normal
Ronan leaned closer again, voice dropping. “In the meantime... want to have a little fun? I’ve got a few ideas. Nothing serious. Just something to... tide you over until she’s yours.”
Atticus didn’t respond right away. His gaze dropped, shadowed, thoughtful.
Then, after a pause, he said, “What do you have in mind?”
Clarissa waited outside the psychiatrist’s office for nearly an hour before Atticus finally emerged.
His expression hollow, almost disoriented. She rushed to him, instantly alarmed. “Atticus, what did the doctor say?”
He avoided her gaze, his lashes low. “He wants to speak with you. Alone.”
Clarissa’s heart thudded. “I’ll go,” she said, trying to sound calm. “Wait here.”
She stepped quickly into the office. The man behind the desk looked up from a file, for a second, he just stared.
“Doctor?” Clarissa called again.
Ronan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. “Ah—yes. Please, have a seat.”
“You’re Atticus’s sister, right?”
“Yes. How is he?”
Ronan straightened the cuffs of his shirt and leaned back in his chair with a little smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Perfectly normal.”
Clarissa’s brow furrowed. “Are you... sure?”
“Miss Clarissa,” he said with professional sharpness, “are you questioning my credentials?”
“No, no—sorry. That’s not what I meant. Please continue.”
But how could everything be normal?
As he scribbled something on a report, Ronan added casually, “It’s entirely natural for an adult man to develop feelings for a woman, especially one who’s beautiful, charming, and constantly by his side.”
He glanced at her meaningfully.
“If he didn’t react to you, that’s when I’d recommend a urology consult.”
Clarissa’s cheeks flushed crimson. She looked away, flustered.
Ronan noticed—and smirked inwardly. No wonder that little bastard Atticus couldn’t get her out of his system. She had a glow, a softness that got under the skin.
He cleared his throat and composed himself, feigning clinical neutrality.
“There’s nothing shameful about desire. What Atticus feels isn’t pathological—it’s human. He's not ill, and he doesn’t require any kind of treatment.”
He paused, then leaned forward just slightly.
“Miss Clarissa, you shouldn’t burden yourself so much. Love doesn’t always follow logic. Sometimes, it simply is.”
Clarissa tried to find the words, but her tongue felt too thick, too clumsy.
“This... This isn’t about love,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ronan arched a brow. “You feel guilt, maybe even shame, because you’ve convinced yourself it’s wrong. But legally, biologically—you and Atticus aren’t related. Not by blood. Not on paper. There’s no taboo here. Only the rules you’ve built inside your own head.”
Clarissa’s heart was pounding. She looked at him, stunned.
He said with a soft smile. “And of course, who you choose to be with is entirely up to you. But if you keep avoiding the truth, hiding from how you feel... it’s only going to eat at you.”
She stood up slowly. “I understand. Thank you, Doctor.”
Outside, Atticus was waiting—leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. The second he saw her, he straightened up and hurried over.
“You were in there so long,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Is it serious?”
Clarissa hesitated. “No... the doctor said you’re fine.”
She looked at him and saw the way he watched her. The concern, the patience, the longing he couldn’t quite mask anymore.
And it shook her. She dropped her gaze and whispered, “I’m just tired. I want to go home.”
Atticus didn’t press. He nodded. “I’ll drive. You can rest in the car.”
Clarissa said nothing more. She simply walked ahead, eyes on the ground, heart spinning in her chest like a storm she couldn’t calm.
Back at home, she went straight to her room and locked the door.
No words. No dinner. No confrontation. Just silence.
Three times a day, he left meals outside her door—beautiful, balanced, home-cooked dishes. He always left a note.
> “Sister, if you’re hungry, just heat this up. Please don’t skip meals. I’ll be gone for a bit. Don’t worry. – Atticus”
Clarissa sat inside, staring at the door, smelling the food she couldn’t bring herself to eat.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t open the door. Not even once. Because she didn’t know how to look at him anymore.
That fear, that desire, that storm—it lingered in her chest for three long days.
For the past three days, Atticus kept his routine—attending classes during the day, returning home on time each evening. But no matter how punctual he was, he and Clarissa hadn't exchanged more than a glance. She’d locked herself in her room, barely eating, speaking even less.
He knew she was avoiding him.
At first, Atticus told himself he’d give her space—to process, to calm down. She would understand that they weren’t truly siblings. There was no blood between them. No laws against being together. No reason to carry the weight of guilt she insisted on shouldering.
But seeing her retreat deeper into herself... that, he couldn't allow.
So tonight, he came home early, mind already set. Something had to change.
He stepped in, kicked off his shoes, and paused.
Clarissa was curled up on the sofa.
“Clarissa?” he rushed to her side, voice low with concern. “What’s the matter?”
Her face was ghost-pale, lips pressed tightly together, forehead slick with cold sweat. The moment she tried to move, she winced and folded in tighter on herself.
She whispered, her voice faint. “Can you get me a glass of water? And the painkillers?”
Atticus crouched beside her, eyes scanning her face. “Where does it hurt? Let me take a look.”
She flinched, instinctively pulling away. “No—don’t. I just… it’s my period. It hurts more than usual. I’ll be fine once I take something.”
Atticus frowned. “I remember the last one started on the 8th... so this is almost a week early.”
Clarissa looked startled. “You… remember that?”
“Of course,” he replied without missing a beat. “I always keep track. I never buy you fruit when you’re on your period.”
Clarissa blinked, and Atticus smiled that soft smile.
“Just hang in there a bit longer, okay? I’ll take care of it.”
He stood and disappeared into the kitchen.
Another wave of cramps hit, sharp and unforgiving. Clarissa whimpered softly and curled up tighter on the sofa, clutching her abdomen.
A few minutes later, Atticus returned with a tray full of things she didn’t recognize.
She stared at it, confused. “What… is all this?”
“Just relax. Lie back for me,” he said gently, coaxing her up and easing her down into a more comfortable position on the couch.
Too weak to protest, Clarissa complied. Until she felt his hand on the collar of her shirt.
She stiffened. “Atticus—what are you doing?”
“Don’t move.”
His voice wasn’t teasing. It was firm. Commanding.
Clarissa stopped resisting. She lay still. Then came a sharp prick on her lower back. She gasped quietly.
“Did you catch a cold too?” he asked, focused. “Stomachache?”
“A little…” she admitted.
Atticus exhaled a frustrated breath through his nose. “You should’ve told me sooner.”
Clarissa turned her head slightly, watching as he pressed small warmed pouches to her back, her knees, and even her ankles. The scent of something earthy and herbal filled the room.
“What is that?” she asked, voice small.
“Wormwood,” he said simply. “How does it feel?”
“…Much better,” she murmured after a moment. The pain was still there, but dulled now, softened.
Just then, he returned with a bowl of steaming red date porridge and placed it in her hands.
“Drink slowly,” he said. “Don’t rush.”
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