Page 15 of Deviant Obsession

"I want to help people," she says finally, her voice stronger now. "Future patients deserve a therapist who understands their struggles, who can guide them through breaking free from generational cycles. I just..." she pauses, that bottom lip catching between her teeth again. "I need to be certain I'm approaching it from the right perspective."

"The right perspective," I repeat, letting just a touch of challenge enter my tone. "Or the safe one?"

Her eyes widen slightly again, and I know I've struck gold. There's something intoxicating about watching her walls crack, one careful question at a time. The consummate good girl, the dedicated student, and the future therapist are all masks hiding something far more interesting beneath.

"I believe in maintaining professional boundaries for my own self-preservation," she starts, but I cut her off with a raised hand.

"Do you? Or have you simply never learned how to exist without them?"

Her stillness speaks volumes. I let the silence stretch, watching the internal war play out across her features. Years of experience have taught me when to push and when to wait, and this moment calls for patience.

"I left," she says finally, barely more than a timid whisper. "Isn't that enough?"

"Did you?" I rise slowly from my chair, moving to perch against the front of my desk. The new position puts me closer, lets me tower over her seated form. "Physically, yes, you did. But mentally?" I tap my temple. "That's where the real chains are, aren't they?"

She draws in a shaky breath, and I notice how her fingers have stopped fidgeting with the notebook. Instead, they'rewhite-knuckled around its edges, as if she's trying to anchor herself to something solid.

"With respect, Professor Shaw, I'm not sure this is relevant to my paper."

"No?" I cross my arms, studying her. "Your entire thesis centers on breaking generational patterns of religious trauma. Yet here you sit, embodying the very phenomenon you're attempting to deconstruct. How can you hope to guide future patients through their liberation when you're still..."

"Still what?" There's a flash of hot defiance in her eyes now.

Interesting.

"Bound," I finish softly. "By rules you no longer believe in but can't quite bring yourself to break."

The word hangs between us like acrid smoke. Her chest rises and falls more rapidly now, like she’s trying not to suffocate in it, and I find myself tracking the movement, imagining how it would feel beneath my palm.

"I understand the theory," she insists, but there's a tremor in her voice that betrays her uncertainty. "The psychological mechanisms of?—"

"Theory isn't enough." I cut her off again before she has a chance to talk herself back into that cage. "You can't help others navigate waters you're afraid to swim in yourself."

She turns slightly in her chair to maintain eye contact, and I catch a whiff of her perfume. It’s something light, floral, and achingly innocent. "I'm not afraid."

"No?" I lean forward a little, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me. "Then why do you still dress sometimes like you're ready for Sunday service? Why do you sit in the middle row of my class, not too close to the front nor the back. It’s the perfect compromise between engagement and invisibility?"

A flush creeps up her neck again, but this time there's something different in her eyes. Something darker, more aware. "You've been watching me."

The words slip out before she can catch them, and her eyes flicker with distress at her own boldness. I allow myself a small smile, letting her see just a hint of the hunger I've been carefully concealing.

"I observe all my students, Rhea. It's part of my job to understand what drives them." I pause, deliberately brushing my fingertips across the arm of her chair. Not touching her, but close enough that she can feel the temptation. "But you... You're a particularly fascinating case study."

Her breath catches, and I watch in satisfaction as her pupils dilate slightly. "Because of my research topic?"

"Because of everything you represent." I move back to my desk chair, maintaining professional distance even as I push the conversation into dangerous territory. "The classic battle between desire and duty. Between what you want and what you've been taught to want."

"And what exactly do you think I want, Professor?" she almost squeaks.

The question comes out timidly, but it carries weight. I meet her gaze steadily, letting her see just enough of my own darkness to make her pulse jump.

"Freedom," I say simply. "Real freedom. Not just the appearance of it. The kind that starts with admitting what you really crave."

She swallows hard, and I track the movement of her throat. "I should probably go. It's getting late."

"Is it?" I glance at my watch with practiced casualness. "I suppose it is. But, Rhea?" I wait until she meets my eyes again. "Consider this—therapy isn't just about understanding trauma.It's about helping people rediscover their capacity for joy, for sensation, for..." I pause deliberately, "...relief."

The word lands exactly as intended. I watch her shiver and the slight parting of her lips. She's frozen in her chair, caught between fight and flight, and I can almost taste her indecision.

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