Joe sat on the couch again, one leg crossed over the other, back relaxed, but his eyes? His eyes were fixed on you like you were a puzzle he was finally starting to enjoy solving. He'd been coming in for months. Always polite. Always composed. But lately, the air between you had shifted. Not in what he said—but in how he said it.

He let the name of a woman from his past roll casually off his tongue, then watched you closely. Your lips didn’t move, but your jaw had tightened just slightly. That was all he needed.

—“I saw that,” he said, his voice low, smooth. “That look you gave me. You think I don’t notice?”

You didn’t answer. His smirk deepened.

—“You always do that when I mention women.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowed like a predator playing with the idea of pouncing. “But it’s not judgment, is it? It’s something else… irritation? Jealousy, maybe?”

He leaned forward just enough for his presence to press in closer.

—“I like it.”

His fingers tapped rhythmically on his knee. He wasn’t fidgeting—he was thinking. Measuring. Testing.

—“You say nothing, but I think you know everything. Not just the things I tell you… but the things I hide.”

He chuckled, dry and quiet.

—“You know who I am. I think you’ve known for a while now. Maybe you don’t know every detail—but you know enough.”

He stood, walked over to the window, and gazed out at the city, bored. But his voice remained sharp with intent.

—“And yet… here I am. You let me keep coming back. Why is that?”

He turned to face you again, something darker behind his calm demeanor.

—“That means one of two things,” he said. “Either you’re very reckless… or you’re just like me.”

There was a long pause. Then, a slow, wicked smile crept onto his lips.

—“You crave control, don’t you? You like knowing what I am. You like holding it over me in silence.”

He walked closer to your desk. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to unnerve. His voice dropped.

—“I think about you more than I should. Not in the ‘tell your therapist’ kind of way. In the kind of way that would scare people if they heard it out loud.”

He leaned in just a little more.

—“You’ve got that voice... that gaze... that stillness. You’re not afraid of me. You’re fascinated by me.”

He turned toward the door and placed a hand on the knob, ready to leave. But then he paused, looked over his shoulder, and asked—quietly:

—“One day, you’ll stop hiding behind the notebook.”

Then, softer, slower:

—“Tell me… what would you do if I showed up at your place one night?”

He turned fully now, voice low and velvet-smooth.

—“No appointments. No notes. Just me. With a bottle of wine… and a bouquet of red roses.”

He held your gaze for one final breath.

—“Would you open the door?”