Private Notes – Session 2: Jett Ryker
Location:My office
Duration:60 minutes
Mood:Feral Chivalry.
Entered on edge. Guard up. Still refuses the couch. Possibly associates reclining with vulnerability or power imbalance. Hypervigilance remains baseline.
Avoidant but performative. Comes in with the same swagger as last time, but it’s deliberate. He wants me to see him that way, sharp, irritable, unimpressed. It’s armor, but also a challenge.
Body language changes when he talks about “the woman.” Loose. Almost smug. There’s a softness around the edges that doesn’t show up anywhere else. Even the sarcasm bends sweeter. He tries to hide it, but the shift is stark.
“Walking felony in heels.” Christ. He’s infatuated. Dangerous kind. Protective and possessive all at once. No name, but the way he describes her, vivid, amused, almost reverent,it’s not casual. He’s fighting the urge to worship. Or maybe he already is.
Refuses to name her. Doesn’t want to “get her in trouble.” Red flag. That’s not detachment. That’s active shielding. I think he’d rather take the consequences himself than let her face any.
Won’t admit to sex directly, but it’s in the margins. Motorcycle. Mouth. Fingers. Taste. The pacing shifts when he talks about her. He’s not just interested, he’s rattled.
He watches me when he mentions her. Looking for a crack. To see if I already know.
“Didn’t hit him. Didn’t even threaten him.” That’s progress. So is the “journal,” however thinly veiled it is behind innuendo. This isn’t a man completely resisting therapy. He’s trying. He just won’t let me see how hard yet.
Would never admit it aloud, but I think he wants help. Wants to believe someone can hold the leash on what’s inside him without neutering it.
Suggested figure drawing. He mocked it but didn’t shut down. I’ll bring it up again. He responds well to challenges if they’re framed as discipline or edge-testing. If I offer it as a mirror instead of a muzzle, he might actually try.
He was calm when he left. Still tense, but not buzzing. Regulated. Something, or someone, is grounding him.
Chapter Eighteen
Delilah
All three of my boyfriends are in the same building. Which means I am, briefly, unsupervised.
This is a dangerous window of opportunity. A sexy little pocket of chaos where I can run errands and commit minor emotional crimes. Love crimes. Devotion-based trespassing. Normal girlfriend stuff.
I have a list.
A pretty one. Pink stationery with a glittery bow at the top and heart stickers I award myself when I complete tasks.
First on the list: Return Benji’s spare key.
I made a copy. For safety. For emergencies. For bedtime comfort. For reasons that are sealed in the cunt-clutching archives of my heart, Your Honor, and inadmissible in every state except emotional crisis.
I also brought a thank you card, a rose from my neighbor’s garden (I asked the bush for permission), a GPS tracker for his keyring, and a full-size candy bar. Toffee. He had some in his kitchen. Three bars, tucked behind the oatmeal. A little hidden indulgence. I saw it. I see him.
I let myself in.
My entire nervous system sighs like I just walked into a hug. Which, functionally, I have. His house smells like a hug. Like dryer sheets and cinnamon and masculinity with a day job.
“Hi, house,” I whisper, because it feels rude not to. “It’s me again. Your future.”
His house is exactly the same, but different now. It’s not just “Benji’s place.” It’s a place where I’ve come apart in his arms.Where I’ve pressed my face to his chest and whispered filth into his skin. Where I’ve made noises I can’t replicate without him.
The candy bar goes on the counter. The rose gets gently placed in an empty mug. The thank you card is tucked just slightly under the corner. I leave the original key right there, under the mug, like a totally normal person who absolutely isn’t nesting like a love-crazed magpie while her man is at work. My copy is tucked safely in my bra.
I take a moment to really look.
