I extended my hand, with a professional smile firmly in place despite the alarm bells ringing in my head. "Mr. Keller? I'm Dr. Matthews. Please, have a seat."
He took my hand, and I instantly registered the calluses. Not office workers' hands. His grip was careful, calibrated. Like someone who knew exactly how much pressure would hurt and was deliberately staying just below that threshold.
My instincts sharpened. Insurance investigators didn't have hands like that. Those were hands that knew violence intimately.
"Julian, please," he said, and god, his voice. Low and slightly rough, with the ghost of an accent I couldn't quite place. Eastern European maybe? "Mr. Keller makes me sound like my father."
Father issues. That was something to note.
He settled into the couch across from me, immediately spreading his arms wide across the back cushions, crossing one leg over the other like he owned the place. He took up more space than his frame required, a casual confidence bordering on territorial. Julian acted like he wasn't just claiming my office, but everyone in it. His eyes never left my face. My skin prickled under the attention.
The wrongness intensified. This wasn't how anxious patients sat. This was how predators sat. He was relaxed because they were the most dangerous thing in the room.
"So, Julian," I said, reaching for my notepad. "What brings you in today?"
His smile reminded me of wolves I'd seen at a wildlife sanctuary once. Beautiful, magnetic, and absolutely not to be trusted.
"Honestly? My boss thinks I need to work on my people skills."
Deflection. Humor as a defense mechanism. Shifting responsibility to an authority figure. All completely predictable.
So why was my heart racing?
"And what do you think? Do you agree with your boss's assessment?"
Julian's eyes narrowed slightly, and his head tilted in a way that reminded me of a predator recalculating. "I think people are generally disappointing, Dr. Matthews."
The way he said my name sent an unprofessional shiver down my spine. Heat and warning tangled together until I couldn't separate them.
Focus, Vincent."You can call me Vincent if you'd like.”
"Okay, Vince," he replied, investing that single syllable with intimacy that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states. "To answer your question, I don't think my people skills are the problem. I understand people perfectly. I just don't particularly like most of them."
I jotted down some notes. This appeared to be misanthropy as a defense mechanism with possible antisocial tendencies and definite narcissistic features.
"That's an interesting perspective," I said. "What about the people you do like? Friends, family, romantic partners?"
"Trying to determine if I'm a sociopath right out of the gate?" He grinned, and it transformed his face completely. Suddenly he looked younger, almost boyish. The danger morphed from predatory to mischievous. "I have friends. Not many, but they're ride-or-die types. Family's complicated. And romance..." He shrugged one impressive shoulder. "I tend to want what I can't have."
His eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, I froze like a butterfly pinned to a collection board. Something hot and forbidden flared between us before I ruthlessly tamped it down.
"That's quite common, actually," I said, proud of how steady my voice remained. "Many people find themselves caught in cycles of pursuing unavailable partners. It often relates back to early attachment experiences."
"Oh, I'm sure it does," Julian replied with a smirk that suggested he knew exactly what I was doing.
"Would you mind sharing a bit about your family background?"
"Not much to tell." His tone suggested the topic was closed, yet somehow I knew pressing further would reveal just how impenetrable his wallstruly were.
I made another note in my pad. This showed extreme resistance to personal disclosure and possible childhood trauma.
I studied him carefully, noting how his entire body language was engineered to appear open while revealing absolutely nothing of substance. "Whatever you're comfortable sharing is fine for now. Building trust takes time."
A momentary crack appeared in the carefully constructed facade. Then it was gone, replaced by that wolfish smile. "Life's difficult for everyone, isn't it? Some just handle it better than others."
I made another notation. He was displaying avoidance of emotional vulnerability and intellectualization of grief. This was classic alexithymia presenting as bravado.
"And how do you handle it, Julian?" I asked, my clinical curiosity warring with a decidedly unprofessional heat spreading through my chest.
