Hands Off, Eyes On

I didn’t reply to Jason’s message.

But I didn’t block him either.

That should’ve told me everything I needed to know about where I really was in my so-called healing journey.

It’s easy to act strong when no one’s testing you.

But when the devil knocks and you hesitate before locking the door...

That’s when you realize how much of him is still inside you.

I stared at the screen until it went black.

My reflection stared back at me—blank, messy-haired, toothbrush still in hand. The ghost of who I used to be flickering just beneath the surface like a film I couldn’t quite pause.

I whispered to the dark, "You’re not her anymore."

But the silence didn’t agree.

I didn’t mention the messages in therapy the next day.

I wanted to.

But the truth felt like it would burst something too fragile in me.

So I sat down, legs crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up my arms, and tried to act normal.

Lane glanced up from his notes. “Rough night?”

“You should see the other guy,” I said with a grin that didn’t reach my eyes.

He didn’t bite.

Instead, he watched me with that steady, unreadable calm that made me feel exposed even when I was fully dressed.

I hated how much that turned me on.

Which made me hate myself more.

“Let’s do something different today,” he said, closing his notebook.

“Oh?” I raised a brow. “What are we doing, Doctor Carter? Trust falls and interpretive dance?”

He didn’t laugh.

He just folded his hands. “I want you to sit still for five minutes. Hands on your knees. No movement. No talking. And no touching.”

I blinked. “Why?”

“Because I want to see how long it takes before you try to escape yourself.”

That earned him a slow, tight smile. “And if I refuse?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Then you already failed.”

God, he was infuriating.

But fine. Challenge accepted.

I adjusted my posture, sat upright, and planted my hands flat on my thighs.

He set the timer on his phone and leaned back, legs crossed, arms resting casually—watching.

Not judging.

Just... observing.

The room went quiet.

Tick... tick... tick...

By minute one, I was already squirming in my skin.

By minute two, my heartbeat had climbed into my ears.

By minute three, my thighs twitched, and I had to fight the urge to cross and uncross them.

His gaze never left me.

Not in a sexual way.

But in a way that felt like the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to me.

Hands off.

Eyes on.

I’d had plenty of men touch me.

None of them had ever looked at me like that.

Like they were searching for something I didn’t know how to show.

At minute four, my breath stuttered.

I hated this.

Not the silence.

Not the stillness.

But the presence.

I felt naked. Stripped down to bone and memory.

My lip quivered, and I clenched my jaw to stop it.

Lane didn’t say a word.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just held me there.

Like he could carry my chaos without ever laying a hand on me.

When the timer buzzed, I let out a breath like I’d been holding it underwater.

He finally looked away. Picked up his pen. Wrote one line.

I wanted to scream.

“What did you write?” I snapped.

He glanced up. “You didn’t touch yourself.”

“Wow,” I said dryly. “Give me a medal.”

“I’m serious. That’s the first time you sat with discomfort and didn’t try to numb it.”

“I was being watched.”

“You’re always being watched, Amelia. The question is, can you stay honest when no one is?”

That shut me up.

He tapped the pen against his notebook. “You’re used to using your body to interrupt tension. Today, you sat in it. You stayed.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“But you did.”

I swallowed hard.

“I wanted to cross my legs. Wanted to lick my lips. Anything to break the stare.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know what withdrawal looks like.”

That hit harder than I expected.

Withdrawal.

Like an addict being denied her fix.

Which is exactly what I was.

“Has anyone ever just... looked at you?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“Touched you without expecting anything back?”

I shook my head.

“Then we start there.”

“With staring contests and breathing exercises?”

“With stillness,” he said. “If you can survive it in here, maybe you can start surviving it out there.”

My laugh was weak. “You say that like the world gives a damn about stillness.”

“I don’t care about the world right now,” he said. “I care about you.”

That made my throat tighten.

I wanted to believe him.

But I’d spent too long thinking love sounded like heavy breathing and tasted like sweat.

This kind of care—quiet, boundary-laced, inconveniently safe—felt foreign.

And it terrified me more than any orgasm ever had.

I walked out of his office that day with shaking hands.

But they weren’t shaking from arousal.

They were shaking because for the first time in years, I was starting to feel without needing to be touched.

And I didn’t know what to do with that kind of power.

When I got home, Jason’s messages were still there.

Unread.

Waiting.

Like a trap I used to run straight into.

I stared at them for a long time.

Then, slowly, I typed back:

“No. I don’t miss you.”

And hit block.

My whole body trembled.

It was the smallest act.

And it felt like war.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at my door.

Three slow taps.

I froze.

Because something in me knew—

That knock wasn’t random.

And when I looked through the peephole...

My stomach dropped.

Jason.

Smiling.

As if I’d never left.