Page 13 of Deviant Obsession

Professor Shaw sits behind an imposing oak desk, sunlight streaming through tall windows behind him, highlighting golden streaks in his chestnut hair. His welcoming invitation makes my stomach clench as I step inside, taking in the carefully curated domain. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, leather-bound volumes and academic journals arranged with meticulous care. The air carries hints of leather and aged paper, mixed with something warmer, spicier… His cologne, perhaps.

I want to bathe in the scent.

"How’s it going? Please, have a seat," he says warmly, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. But, in my nervousness—and some halfhearted, awkward attempt at a wave—I fumble my folder. Papers scatter across his Persian rug in a mortifying display of clumsiness.

"Shit! I'm so sorry," I stammer, quickly dropping to my knees to gather them. He rises smoothly from his chair, making his way around the desk to help me. Our fingers brush as we both grab for the same page, sending a shock up my arm like I’d touched an electric fence. I snatch my hand back, clutching the papers to my chest as I scramble into the visitor's chair.

Of course, my cheeks are on fire.

"I've been anticipating our discussion, Miss Foster," the professor says, a slightly bemused smile curling the corner of his mouth as he settles back into his own seat. His voice holdsthat same hypnotic quality it does in lectures, but it’s somehow infinitely more intimate in this enclosed space.

"I... please, call me Rhea... if that's okay... or not, um, if it’s not appropriate…" Though I didn’t think it was possible, more heat creeps up my neck at my own boldness.

He grins even wider at that. "Rhea, it is. Tell me, how are you getting on with the research for your first assignment? What drew you to your chosen topic?"

I take a steadying breath, willing my poor, exhausted heart to slow. "It wasyourpaper on inherited trauma responses in Holocaust survivors' grandchildren, actually. I found it during my sophomore year when I was supposed to be researching something else entirely." The memory brings a shy smile to my face. "I stayed up all night reading it, then tracked down everything else you'd published. The way you connected generational patterns to measurable biological markers... It blew my mind. I knew there and then that I wanted to dig deeper into generational trauma, to see what I could bring to this field that affects so many people."

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk. "I see. What made that particular aspect resonate with you?"

"My parents..." I hesitate, then push forward. "They're very conservative. Religious fundamentalists, actually. When I told them I wanted to study psychology, they said it was ungodly—that people just needed prayer and faith, not therapy." I wring my fingers in my lap, my gaze suddenly fixed on a small scratch in the surface of his polished desk. "But I kept seeing these patterns in our church community. Children inheriting their parents' fears, their rigid beliefs, their..." I trail off, not wanting to say too much. There’s a moment of heavy silence before I finally summon the courage to look up again.

His hazel eyes fix on mine with laser focus. "Their trauma?"

I nod, transfixed by the intensity of his gaze. "They call it tradition or discipline or obedience. But the signs are there if you know what to look for. The hypervigilance, the attachment issues..." I realize I'm rambling, getting too personal, and force myself to stop.

"And that's what made you want to pursue psychology?" He's leaning as far forward now as the furniture between us will allow, utterly still except for his fingers drumming once against the desk.

"Yes. I want to help break those cycles. Your research showed me it was possible—that we're not just fighting abstract concepts, but clear patterns, and actual, biological changes we can identify and address." My passion for the subject overtakes my nervousness like wiping away steam from a mirror. "The way you mapped the methylation patterns in trauma survivors compared to control groups... It gave me hope that we could quantify these impacts, make them impossible to dismiss as imagination or…or weakness."

The sunlight catches in his eyes, turning them a molten amber as he studies me, making the green flecks dance. "Most of my students don't dig quite so deeply into the methodology."

"I probably sound like such a starstruck fanatic," I admit with an embarrassed huff, dropping my gaze to my lap again. "I've read everything you've published at least twice."

"Not at all. Your passion is...encouraging." His voice has dropped lower, licking down my spine like warm honey. "I worry sometimes that I’m wasting my time with teaching. Most students lack your dedication. I wonder on occasion if I’d be better off going back to seeing patients full-time."

“I’m glad you’ve stuck with teaching so far,” I mumble, almost to myself. “I was thrilled to land a place in your class.”

Silence descends again. This time I’m terrified my pathetic gushing has made him uncomfortable. I’m almost ready to run from the room when he finally speaks again.

"Well, I’m glad to have you in it, Rhea. Tell me more about what you envision for your future work," he says, breaking the unbearable tension.

I glance up eagerly, my embarrassment temporarily forgotten in the excitement of discussing my dreams with someone who will understand them. Someone who won't dismiss them as ungodly or impractical. Someone who makes me feel seen in a way no one else ever has.

"I want to help people who have been..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "People who've been taught that their pain isn't valid. That suffering in silence is virtuous." My fingers clench again as memories surface—prayer circles instead of counseling, shame instead of support.

"You speak from experience." It's not quite a question.

"My community... Everything was about appearances. Perfect families, perfect faith, perfect obedience. But behind closed doors..." I trail off, surprised by my own candidness. Something about his steady gaze makes me want to bare my soul.

"The pressure to maintain that facade must have been intense," he observes, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. I’m not speaking to the professor anymore. This man is the therapist, the patient counsellor who knows how to navigate difficult topics with tact.

"It’s suffocating. Well…it was. My parents told me never to come home once I told them I’d gotten a scholarship to come here." I manage a grim smile. "They think psychology is just secular humanism trying to replace God. That seeking help means your faith isn't strong enough. And that California is a fiery pit of bikinis and debauchery."

He waits until I release a timid giggle before allowing his own smile to spread across his face. It’s uncanny how he reads my expressions before choosing how to respond. Like he knows exactly what will comfort me in the moment, his presence magnetic. "And yet, here you are."

"Here I am," I agree softly. "A long way from Nebraska. From reading forbidden psychology texts under my covers at night like other girls read romance novels."

"I doubt my research papers provided quite the same thrill," he chuckles.

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