True Affliction - Chapter 2

The hallway was quiet again. Ella’s footsteps had long since faded down the front stairs, but her presence lingered like fog after rain. I had just finished scribbling the final line of my session notes when I heard a low voice at reception.

Male.

Smooth.

Warm, with a thread of mischief underneath it, the kind that made receptionists pause mid-keystroke.

“I’m very patient,” he was saying. “I can wait here all afternoon, if you like. Or find more creative ways to pass the time…”

I stepped out of my office and froze.

He stood at the desk with one hand in his pocket and the other casually draped over the back of a velvet chair like he owned the building. He was tall, really tall, the kind of tall that made ceilings feel low and spaces feel suddenly more intimate.

Broad across the chest, every inch of him carved muscle beneath tailored wool, his suit clinging in all the places it shouldn’t, too fine to disguise the fact that he was built like a man who never let himself go soft. Sculpted, powerful, utterly composed.

His coat, a dove-grey cashmere blend I knew was worth more than my monthly rent, hung over one arm like it belonged there, or on the arm of someone who knew exactly how to own a room.

His hair was a perfectly imperfect sweep of dirty blonde, as if he’d half-tried to style it and then thought better of it. A square jaw, shadowed with just enough stubble to make him look more dangerous, framed a mouth made for both slow, deliberate smiles and quicker, far less polite uses.

And then his eyes. God. A deep, rich blue that smiled before the rest of him did, eyes that held you in place without force, but with the certainty you wouldn’t want to look anywhere else.

When he moved, it was like the space shifted for him, not because he demanded it, but because it simply couldn’t help it.

He turned at the sound of my footsteps.

And then his eyes, blue, smiling, infuriating, landed on mine like they’d been looking for me all morning.

“Dr. Thorne?”

His voice was slower now, lower. Deliberate.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “Can I help you?”

He smiled as he extended his hand.

The instant our palms met, something detonated. A live current shot straight up my arm, wrapping itself around my chest, seizing the breath from my lungs. His skin was hot, impossibly so, as if he carried fire beneath his veins and had just decided to share it with me.

Before I could steady myself, he turned my wrist ever so slightly, his grip shifting with absolute certainty. His lips brushed the back of my hand, soft, searing, deliberate.

Oh God.

The air left my body in a rush. My knees weakened, traitorous, my pulse rioting in my throat as if desperate to answer him. No man kissed a woman’s hand anymore. It was ridiculous. Dangerous. And yet when his mouth lingered that fraction too long, heat darted straight down my spine, pooling low, insistent.

My pulse betrayed me, hammering against my throat. Our eyes locked. And I swear, for a moment, there was no one else. Not the receptionist. Not the room. Just him.

Heat flooded my body, head to toe, merciless. He knew it too. I saw it in the way his mouth tilted, like he was tasting victory already. Like he’d planned this.

I should have pulled away. I didn’t.

Because God help me, I couldn’t.

And then slowly, almost reluctantly he let me go.

“Alexander Ashcroft. I’d like to schedule a consultation.”

His gaze didn’t waver. There was something else in it too, something measured. As if he was reading me, not the other way around.

“Do you have a referral?” I asked, already suspicious.

A pause.

Just long enough.

“No one in particular,” he said. “I’ve been looking.”

“For what, exactly?”

“Someone who knows how to listen.”

His lips barely moved when he said it. But his eyes, they didn’t stop smiling.

I exhaled, a little slower than I meant to. “We’re selective with new patients.”

“I like selective,” he said, glancing around the space. “It usually means the right kind of attention.”

I studied him. Up close, he was even worse, worse in the kind of way that made women forget their standards. Skin like warm marble. A mouth too clever to trust. That rare blend of elegance and power that felt less like charm and more like a dare.

“Have you been in therapy before?”

“Once,” he said. “Briefly.”

“And?”

“They asked too many questions.”

I lifted a brow. “That’s sort of the point.”

“Is it?” he said, tilting his head. “I always thought the point was figuring out the real question underneath.”

My arms crossed before I could stop them. “And what’s yours?”

“That,” he said, leaning just slightly closer, “is what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I could.

---

He straightened again, gave Maya the faintest nod, then turned back to me like the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

My chin lifted. “And what did you expect?”

“Not this,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine, steady, deliberate. “Not someone I can’t look away from.”

The air caught in my throat. My voice came out sharper than I meant. “Flattery won’t work here.”

His mouth curved, not in amusement, but in something darker. “Good. Because I wasn’t trying to flatter you.”

I steadied myself, pulse hammering. “If you’re serious about an appointment, I’ll have availability at the end of the week.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” he said, leaning in close enough that his cologne curled into me, cedar and smoke and something hotter beneath. His gaze didn’t waver.

“But understand something, Dr. Thorne-” his voice dropped, velvet and dangerous, “-whatever you give me, it won’t be yours anymore. It’ll be mine. All of it.”

My breath stalled. The words weren’t a flirtation. They were a warning.

He turned then, walking toward the door with that effortless elegance that made space bend around him. But halfway there, he paused. Looked back over his shoulder, blue eyes molten, smile low and deliberate.

“Careful how you listen,” he said. “Some things can’t be unheard.”

The wink followed, like he already knew I’d think about it later, whether I wanted to or not.

And then he was gone, leaving the silence vibrating with him, my hand still tingling from his kiss, my whole body alight with something I didn’t dare name.

There was a moment of silence behind him before Maya, clinic’s assistant, let out a slow, pointed breath.

“Good Lord,” she said. “Where do men like that even come from?”

I didn’t answer right away. I was still standing in the same spot, my pulse one beat too fast.

Wherever he came from…

I already knew he wouldn’t be easy to send back.

---

---

I didn’t return to my session notes. Not yet.

Instead, I sat in my chair and stared at the wall across from me like it had just whispered something I didn’t want to hear. My hand was still holding the pen, but my fingers had gone slack.

Alexander Ashcroft.

His name echoed in my mind like a phrase spoken in a language I didn’t fully understand. And yet, I’d understood enough.

I opened the small leather notebook I kept beneath my desk drawer. Not the official one. Not the kind that got filed and reviewed and politely coded for insurance. This one was mine, handwritten, private, unfiltered.

I turned to a fresh page and wrote his name, slow and deliberate:

Alexander Ashcroft.

The ink glared back at me, sharp and absolute. My hand hovered, refusing to move.

Until it did. One more word, quick and reckless, like it had been waiting all along.

Inevitable.

The moment it landed, my chest tightened. Then I added something else.

As lethal as he was magnetic.

And it wasn’t just his face, though that would’ve been enough.

It was the way he occupied space. Fully. Casually. Like he didn’t question whether he belonged there. He always belonged. That was the energy he carried, and maybe the curse. Because men like that rarely asked for permission. They made it impossible not to look.

He wasn’t my age. I could tell that much. Mid to late thirties, maybe, old enough to carry a gravity that didn’t come from years, but from the way he’d lived them. Every crease at the corner of his eyes, every shadow of stubble on his jaw, only sharpened the impact. He wasn’t a boy. He wasn’t even trying to be. He was a man. Entire. Unapologetic.

And God, he wore it like sin.

It was in the way he moved. Purposeful, fluid, like every inch of the room already knew who it belonged to. He didn’t seek attention. He commanded it, the way storms command the sky, violent, magnetic, impossible to ignore.

And beneath that devastating composure, something burned.

Fire.

Not frantic or careless. Not arrogance for its own sake. This was deeper. Controlled, but only just. A sexual charge that clung to him, spilling into the space between us until the air itself felt tight with it. He didn’t just occupy the room, he rewired it, set every nerve ending I had to alert.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

He hadn’t come here to ask for help. He’d come to claim something.

And I’d seen it in his eyes when he said, whatever you give me, it won’t be yours anymore.

That wasn’t a comment. That was a mark. A brand, pressed invisible into my skin.

I should’ve been more careful. Detached. Analytical. And I had tried.

But that wink…

That damn unapologetic wink.

He knew I’d think about it later. He wanted me to.

And now, here I was. Thinking about it.

Thinking about him.

And hating that I was.

My phone buzzed with a calendar alert, breaking the moment. I had ten minutes before my next session. Just enough time to straighten my spine, and shove whatever that was into the nearest emotional drawer.

I slid the notebook back into its hiding place. Stared at the door.

He was gone.

But something about me, the me who had stood a little too still, who had stared a little too long, who had written down how magnetic he was, was still in that hallway.

And I didn’t know what that meant yet.

But I had a feeling I was going to find out.

---

All I wanted was stillness.

Something easy. A pause in the noise. A soft couch, a warm blanket, a show full of bad decisions and overlit confessions. I wanted to lose myself in other people’s chaos, where none of the heartbreak belonged to me.

But I had dinner plans.

Tom.

Not because I was dreading him. Not because I didn’t care.

But because I didn’t know where I stood anymore, with him, with us, with the reasons I had ever said yes in the first place.

When had this started to feel like a routine instead of a choice?

I sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the wall for a long time before leaving.

It hadn’t always felt like this.

When we met, Tom had been... easy. Solid. The kind of man who made everything feel slightly more manageable. He remembered things. He was consistent. He showed up. And at the time, that felt like everything.

I’d moved cities. I’d felt rootless, like the ground was still wet beneath me. Tom had been a foundation. Someone who offered stability without drama. A clean kind of affection. Predictable. Practical.

And I had wanted that.

I’d wanted the version of life that looked right from the outside, the neat relationship, the dependable partner, the evenings spent choosing dinner instead of navigating desire.

And I got it.

That was the strange thing about getting what you once wanted: it didn’t always feel the way you thought it would.

We grew into each other in small ways, routines, comfort, shared grocery lists and jokes that only made sense after wine. But now I could feel the shape of something shifting. Something quiet. Not dramatic. Not cruel. Just real.

Like two people slowly becoming strangers while still sleeping in the same bed.

I took the train to his flat, watching my reflection blur in the windows. I looked fine. Composed. But I felt like I was performing someone else’s evening.

He opened the door with a familiar smile, kissed my cheek, handed me a glass of red.

“You look tired,” he said.

“I am.”

“You’ve been working too much again.”

He said it without judgment. It was just an observation. But it still landed like a soft rebuke.

The apartment was warm, too warm. He’d lit candles. The effort was obvious, and endearing. He always tried. He didn’t know how not to.

We sat. We ate. The conversation was light at first. Weather. Work. Commuting misery. Then:

“You know what I was thinking today?” he said, gesturing with his fork. “If I ever won the lottery, I’d just quit everything. No more work. No more alarms. Just... rest. Maybe get a little place by the sea. You and me. Nothing to do but breathe.”

I smiled, but something inside me recoiled. Not because it was wrong. Not because it wasn’t a lovely thought. But because it felt like a life for someone else. A version of me that had existed once, and quietly disappeared.

Tom kept talking. He had a way of doing that, spinning thoughts aloud as if trying to convince himself they made sense.

“I think maybe I’m not made for all this striving,” he said. “I used to think I wanted more. Something ambitious. But now? I’d just like peace. A slow life. No more pressure.”

I nodded. But part of me drifted, slowly, guiltily, away.

There was a time when we wanted the same thing. When we both believed in soft routines and long weekends and quiet companionship. But lately… it felt like we were living inside the ghost of that decision.

Tom was discovering his restlessness, naming it as a kind of surrender. But I wasn’t sure mine would ever be satisfied with stillness.

There were things moving inside me now. Questions. Storms I hadn’t had the courage to admit out loud. I wanted to do more than be safe. I wanted to feel like I was becoming something. And I didn’t know if Tom would ever understand that. Or want to follow.

Maybe he knew that too. Maybe he was just better at pretending.

“Caitriona?”

I looked up. “Sorry?”

“You zoned out,” he said gently. “You’ve been somewhere else all evening.”

I took a sip of wine. It tasted like nothing.

“Sorry, I’m just tired.” I said.

He nodded, but the air between us had already changed. There was something in his eyes, something soft and cautious, like he was standing at the edge of a truth neither of us had spoken.

He didn’t push.

And I didn’t explain.

We finished dinner quietly. We cleared the dishes. We kissed goodnight like people who remembered how to, even if they weren’t sure why they still did.

---

By the time I left Tom’s, it was nearly eleven.

The city was quiet in that muffled way it gets when the night has settled fully, not the kind of silence that feels peaceful, but the kind that feels like you’ve stepped out of time.

The train ride home was half-lit and half-empty. I sat by the window and rested my forehead against the glass, watching my reflection shudder with each stop. The woman looking back at me looked tired. Not just in the physical sense, though that too. But deep in the bones. In the spaces where purpose used to sit.

I unlocked the door to my flat and was immediately greeted by Nounou, her tiny body stretched and yawning with theatrical flair. She sniffed the air, decided I wasn’t carrying snacks, and retreated to her blanket in protest.

“Rude,” I whispered, dropping my keys in the dish.

The flat was still in semi-chaos, half-unpacked boxes leaning against the walls, books stacked where shelves should be. I had been here two weeks and hadn’t yet decided if I was staying. It didn’t feel like home. Not yet. Not really.

I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my sweater, wandering into the kitchen in just a tank top, feet bare on cold tile. The wine Tom had sent me home with was still in my bag. I opened it. No ceremony. No glass. Just a long sip from the bottle at the counter like I was twenty again and didn’t know how to sit with my thoughts.

I should’ve gone to bed.

But my body wouldn’t let me.

I turned on the TV for noise, but muted it immediately. Even voices felt too loud.

Instead, I paced.

Back and forth.

Now that I was alone, the thoughts came faster. All of them. The day unspooling in fragments that didn’t belong together but kept circling anyway.

Ella.

Tom.

Alexander.

God, Alexander.

I hadn’t said his name out loud until now. Hadn’t let it cross my lips once.

But here, alone in the dark, I whispered it.

“Alexander.”

It felt dangerous in my mouth.

Too personal. Too intimate for a man I’d only just met.

But he’d taken up residence behind my ribs. No questions asked. No invitation needed.

I hated that about him.

I hated how I kept replaying the sound of his voice, that slow, silky cadence that felt like it was always half a secret. The heat in his smile. The way he didn’t just look at me, he saw me. Or at least acted like he did.

I curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket over my knees, the bottle still in my hand. The television flickered images I wasn’t watching. I could’ve been anyone in that moment, a woman too tired to sleep, too wired to rest.

I wasn’t thinking about love. Or lust. Or even real things. I was thinking about shifts. About how quickly a day can rearrange you without your permission. About how you can walk through your life believing you know its shape and then one conversation makes it foreign.

I’d been fine this morning.

I was not fine now.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I didn’t reach for it right away. I didn’t want to see Tom’s name. Or a patient reminder. Or some algorithm telling me to meditate.

But after a few seconds, I stood and crossed the room. Picked it up. Unlocked the screen.

And opened our message thread.

I stared at the blinking cursor for a long time, thumbs hovering.

Then I typed:

I care about you too much to keep walking through a version of us that no longer fits. Would you meet me in the morning?

I hit send before I could change my mind.

The message glowed against the darkened screen, still and quiet.

I returned to the couch, Nounou curling beside me like a question I hadn’t yet learned to answer.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t feel relief either.

Just a kind of stillness, the kind that follows after honesty.

It didn’t hurt yet.

But I knew it would.