Page 6 of I See You

Hassan sat down beside Helen, his broad frame sinking into the worn couch as her sharp eyes settled on him.

She didn’t need him to say a word.

Even though Hassan masked every emotion, hid everything beneath that cold exterior, Helen could always feel what he was carrying.

“I know this is a lot to handle,” she spoke softly, her voice gentle but firm.

Hassan’s gaze lifted to hers.

They had the same piercing blue eyes—the ones she had passed down to her son, and now to him. Except, Helen had a rare condition called heterochromia—only one eye was piercing blue, the other a deep, soulful brown. His father inherited the striking blue, and Hassan, in turn, carried it too. That single blue eye in her face always reminded him of his own reflection—of where he came from. But where hers still carried warmth, his held nothing but ice.

“I’m good, Madea.” His voice was low, controlled. Unbothered.

A lie.Helen wasn’t stupid. She knew he was trying to protect her, to keep his demons buried so she wouldn’t have to worry about him on top ofeverythingelse.Butshealsoknewthatwhenthetimecame,whenthe inevitable happened, he was going to break in a way even he wasn’t prepared for.

“Today is a good day,” she murmured. “But there will be a day when it won’t be. I need you and Harper prepared when that day comes.”

Hassan’s jaw clenched. He knew what she was talking about. Her death. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t even want to think about it.

His whole life, the people he loved had been ripped away from him. Every single one. And now, here he was again—watching helplessly as the one person who had ever truly given a damn about him was slipping through his fingers.

He felt the anger stirring in his chest, tightening his throat. But like always, none of it showed on his face.

“You ready?” he asked, brushing off her words like they meant nothing.

Helen nodded, letting it go. She knew her grandson too well. Talking about her death brought emotions—emotions he refused to deal with.

Even as a child, Hassan had never been soft. She had never seen him cry, never seen him light up with excitement, never even caught him grinning unless he was taunting someone. His emotions had always been locked away, trapped behind that same cold, unreadable expression.

The only time he ever broke was during his bipolar episodes. And that? That was terrifying.

She had seen it firsthand—how quickly his mind could switch, how uncontrollable he became. It wasn’t just rage. It was something darker. Something no one, not even Roman, could fully understand.

Before she stood up, she turned to him again, her voice quieter this time.

“Before we go, can you promise me one thing?”

Hassan arched a brow. “I don’t make promises, Madea.”

Helen sighed, already expecting that response. “Fine. Can you think about something for me?”

He nodded, waiting. “Can you go to therapy?”

Hassan’s face barely moved, but for a brief second, she saw it—the scrunch of his brows, the brief flicker of discomfort before his expression went back to stone.

Before he could open his mouth to object, she cut him off.

“Just think about it, San,” she said, her voice carrying that same soft strength she always had with him. “That’s all I ask.”

Then,justlikethat,shestood,grabbingherpurseasifthe conversation was over.

Hassan sat still for a moment, the word therapy sitting heavy in hischest.

The idea of it made something in him ache—not because he feared talking about his shit, but because it meant that Helen saw him as broken.

Like something was wrong with him. And maybe there was. But he had survived his whole life without help. Without needing anyone.

He sure as hell wasn’t about to sit in an office while some stranger tried to tell him how fucked up he was.

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