"Among other things." He casually adjusted his position, drawing attention to the substantial bulge in his jeans. "I'm told I'm very memorable."
I deliberately kept my eyes on his face, though it cost me every ounce of willpower I possessed. The familiar heat flared in my bellyagain. In another life, I might have shown him exactly how completely I could surrender. My previous partners had all been so vanilla, so safe. Soboring.
I swallowed hard and forced myself back into therapist mode. "You seem to use sexual references frequently. Is that a defense mechanism when conversations become too personal?"
For a split second, something like surprise flashed across his face before his cocky demeanor slid back into place. "Or maybe I just really like sex. I'm very good at it. I have references, actually."
"That won't be necessary," I said, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of my voice. There was something almost charming about his outrageous confidence. "I'm more interested in why you feel the need to constantly remind me of your sexual prowess. In my experience, when someone repeatedly emphasizes how good they are at something, it often suggests some underlying insecurity or discomfort with that aspect of themselves."
The shift in Julian's demeanor happened instantly. His easy smile vanished as the temperature in the room plummeted, and something raw and feral flashed across his face. His jaw locked with tendons standing out against his neck, and the blue in his eyes turned arctic.
"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he snapped, each word sharp enough to draw blood, the carefully constructed charm cracking to reveal something lethal underneath.
I maintained eye contact, neither backing down nor escalating during this tense moment. "It's just an observation, Julian. Something to consider."
For a moment, I thought he might stand up and walk out. His entire body had tensed like a predator preparing to strike. Then, just as quickly, he seemed to catch himself. He took a deep breath and deliberately relaxed his shoulders.
"Sorry," he said. "I don't like being... analyzed."
"That's what therapy is," I pointed out quietly. "It's taking a step back to look at things, sometimes raw and painful things."
A short, surprised laugh escaped him. "Yeah. Guess it is."
I waited, letting silence create space for honesty. The afternoon light caught in his dark hair and highlighted strands of amber I hadn't noticed before. My fingers itched to touch them so I could discover if they felt as soft as they looked.
"Sex is easy," he finally said, his voice lower and stripped of the performative confidence from earlier. "It's simple. Clear objectives. Clear outcomes. The rest of this shit..." He gestured vaguely. "People, feelings, connections. That's where I get lost."
His confession hung raw and unguarded between us as the first authentic moment of our session. The admission opened something in my chest, perhaps a recognition. I knew that feeling all too well, though I'd spent years in therapy learning to navigate it. Seeing it reflected in those intense blue eyes made me want to reach across the professional divide and offer something. Was it comfort? Understanding? It was something dangerously close to intimacy.
I let the admission hang in the air for a moment, respecting its weight. "That's a valuable insight, Julian. Recognizing where your comfort zones are is an important first step."
He looked almost surprised at my response, as if he'd expected judgment rather than acceptance. Something in his posture shifted subtly, the aggressive confidence softening into something more genuine.
"Yeah, well." He cleared his throat. "Don't get used to it. I'm not usually this... open."
"I appreciate that you felt comfortable enough to share that with me," I said, meaning it. "That's what these sessions are for."
Our eyes met and held. Something passed between us that had nothing to do with his earlier flirtations or my professional persona. It was somethingreal. The air between us was charged with potential energy and made the hairs on my arms stand up.
The moment was broken by the soft chime of my timer.
"Looks like our time is up for today," I said, surprised at my own reluctance to end the session.
Julian nodded, the mask of confident charm sliding back into place, but not quite as seamlessly as before. I could see the cracks now. "Same time next week?"
"Yes," I said, standing. "My assistant can confirm."
He extended his hand, and I took it for a handshake. The contact was different this time, less performative and more present than before.
"Thanks, Vince," he said, his voice lower, gentler than it had been all session. Then, as if remembering himself, he added with a hint of his earlier mischief, "Looking forward to our next session. I promise to bring all my issues... and they are legion."
After he left, I sat in my chair for a long moment and processed what had just happened. In fifty minutes, Julian Keller had shown me more faces than most patients revealed in months. I had seen the shameless flirt, the angry defender, and briefly, heartbreakingly, the lost soul underneath it all.
I should refer him to another therapist. That would be the ethical thing to do, especially given the inappropriate attraction I couldn't quite deny. More than that, there was something about him that didn't add up. Insurance investigators didn't have hands that looked like they'd broken bones. They didn't move like a predator.
But even as I thought about it, I knew I wouldn't refer him. Something about Julian Keller had hooked into me, somecombination of danger and vulnerability that bypassed all my careful defenses. Professional curiosity, I told myself. Nothing to do with the way his eyes lingered on me or how my body had responded to his presence.
"Why am I like this?" I asked Ferris Bueller, who had no answers to offer, only silent green judgment.
