Chapter 3: A Different Kind of Session
The office smelled like old paper and lemon polish. Ava had always liked that smell—it reminded her of libraries, of quiet corners, of places where nothing bad had ever happened. She sat in the worn leather armchair with her hands folded in her lap, her thumb tracing the same small circle over and over against her knuckle.
Dr. Hartley sat across from her in his own chair, a legal pad balanced on his knee. He was older—sixties, maybe—with silver hair and kind eyes and a way of sitting so still that you almost forgot he was there. Almost.
"How was your week?" he asked.
Ava stared at the bookshelf behind his head. Rows of psychology texts, all those yellowed spines with their clinical titles. The Human Mind. Trauma and Recovery. The Body Keeps the Score. She'd read that last one. Twice.
"Something happened," she said.Dr. Hartley didn't react. He just waited, pen resting against the paper.
"At the gym. A guy talked to me." Ava's voice came out thin, like it was being squeezed through a straw. "He was flirting, I think. I don't know. He made me laugh. And then he touched my arm, just—just a brush, barely anything—and I froze. Completely froze. And then I ran."
She stopped. The ceiling fan hummed overhead, its blades cutting slow circles through the dusty air. Sunlight slanted through the blinds and made stripes on the floor.
"That sounds difficult," Dr. Hartley said.
"That's not even the worst part." Ava's thumb kept circling. "I ran to the locker room and showered and scrubbed my back until it hurt, and then when I came out, I ran into him again. Literally. Collided with his chest."
"What happened then?"
"He apologized." Ava finally looked at him. "He apologized for touching me. And then he asked for my number. So he could prove he wasn't an asshole."Dr. Hartley's eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. "Did you give it to him?"
"Yes."
"And has he contacted you?"
"He texted me last night. And this morning." Ava pulled her phone from her pocket and set it on the armrest, screen-down. "He wants to get coffee. Friend coffee, he said. No pressure."
The fan clicked as it rotated.Dr. Hartley wrote something on his pad—just a few words, nothing Ava could see.
"How does that make you feel?"he asked.
Ava laughed. It came out sharp and humorless, more like a bark than anything else. "Like I want to throw up. Like I want to say yes. Like I want to block his number and never go back to that gym again."
"All three at once?"
"All three at once."
Dr. Hartley nodded slowly. He set the legal pad aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His eyes were steady behind his glasses—not pitying, not clinical. Just present.
"Tell me about the touch," he said.
"Which one?"
"The first one. The one that made you freeze."
Ava closed her eyes. She could still feel it—the warmth of Jake's fingertips against the bare skin of her shoulder, right above the edge of her tank top. It had lasted maybe half a second. Less. A graze so light she almost could have imagined it.
"It was nothing," she said. "That's what makes it so stupid. It was nothing and my whole body just—shut down. Like a switch flipped. One second I was fine, laughing at his dumb joke, and the next I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think."
"That sounds like a flashback."
"I know what a flashback is. This wasn't that." Ava opened her eyes. "I didn't see the concert. I didn't hear the explosion. I just felt his hand and then I was gone. Like my body remembered something my brain forgot."
Dr. Hartley was quiet for a moment. The clock on his desk ticked—a real clock, not digital, with a second hand that swept in precise arcs.
"The body keeps score," he said.
"I've read the book."
"Then you know it's not about logic. It's not about whether the touch was innocent or the person was safe. Your nervous system has been trained to interpret certain stimuli as threats. Physical contact. Crowds. Loud noises. Those triggers bypass your prefrontal cortex and activate your amygdala before you even have time to process what's happening."
Ava stared at him. "I know all this. I've been coming here for a year."
"Then why are you still surprised when it happens?"
The question landed like a slap. Ava opened her mouth, closed it again. Her throat felt tight—that familiar constriction, like someone was pressing a thumb against her windpipe.
"Because I thought I was getting better," she finally said. "Because I thought I could have a normal conversation with a guy without turning into a complete basket case. Because—" Her voice cracked. She stopped.
Dr. Hartley waited.
"Because I liked him," Ava whispered. "I actually liked him. And then he touched me and I ruined it. Like I always do."
The words hung in the air. The fan kept turning. The clock kept ticking. Somewhere outside, a car passed—the whisper of tires on asphalt, the distant thump of a bass line from someone's stereo.
"Have you ruined it?"Dr. Hartley asked.
"He texted me. He still wants to get coffee."
"So maybe you haven't ruined it."
Ava shook her head. "You don't understand. It's not about whether he still wants to see me. It's about whether I can handle it. Whether I can sit across from him in a coffee shop without losing my mind the second he moves too fast or brushes against my leg or—" She broke off, pressing her palm against her forehead. "I can't even think about it without panicking."
"Do you remember the grounding exercise we practiced last month?"
"Five things I can see, four I can touch, three I can hear—"
"Two I can smell, one I can taste."Dr. Hartley nodded. "Let's try it now."
"Now?"
"Now."
Ava exhaled. She didn't want to do this. She wanted to curl up in the chair and disappear. But she'd been doing this long enough to know that arguing with Dr. Hartley was pointless. He'd just wait her out, patient as a stone.
"Fine." She straightened in the chair. "One. The bookshelf. Two. The lamp on your desk.Three. The blinds. Four—" She squinted at the edge of his desk. "—that coffee mug with the chipped handle.Five. The crack in the ceiling by the corner."
"Good. Now four things you can touch."
Ava pressed her feet into the floor. "The carpet. My jeans. The armrest." She ran her fingers along the worn leather. "This chair. It's smooth."
"Three you can hear."
"The fan. The clock." She paused, listening. "My own breathing."
"Two you can smell."
"Old books. And—" She breathed in through her nose. "Lemon. Your polish, or whatever it is."
"One you can taste."
Ava swallowed. "The coffee I had this morning. It's still kind of there. Bitter."
"Good."Dr. Hartley leaned back. "How do you feel now?"
Ava took stock. Her heart was still beating faster than normal, but the tightness in her chest had eased—just a little, like a knot that had been loosened by half a turn. She could breathe without feeling like she was suffocating.
"Better," she admitted.
"So you can manage the panic. It doesn't have to control you."
"I know."
"Then what's stopping you from having coffee with this boy?"
Ava picked up her phone and stared at the dark screen. Jake's messages were still there, waiting for her to respond. She could picture him—tall and muscular, with dark hair and gray eyes and that stupid confident smirk. The kind of guy who'd never had to work for anything in his life.
The kind of guy who could have any girl he wanted.
"Why do you think he asked for your number?" Dr.Hartley asked.
"I don't know. Because he felt guilty? Because he thinks I'm a challenge?"
"Or because he genuinely wants to get to know you."
Ava snorted. "Guys like him don't want to get to know girls like me."
"What kind of girl is that?"
"The kind with scars on her back and panic attacks in gym locker rooms."Dr. Hartley didn't flinch. He just looked at her with those steady, patient eyes. "Ava, I'm going to say something, and I want you to really hear it."
She braced herself.
"Your scars are not who you are. They're something that happened to you—something terrible, something unfair—but they don't make you unlovable. They don't make you broken. They make you someone who survived."
Ava's eyes stung. She looked away, blinking rapidly at the bookshelf.
"You're allowed to want things," Dr. Hartley continued. "You're allowed to want connection. You're allowed to want someone to touch you without fear. And you're allowed to be scared of all of it at the same time."
"That doesn't make it easier."
"No. It doesn't."He paused. "But it means you're not doing anything wrong. You're just healing. And healing isn't linear."
Ava sat with that for a long moment. The fan hummed. The clock ticked. The sunlight shifted on the floor.
"Can I ask you something?" she said."Of course."
"How do you know when you're ready? To—to try again?"Dr. Hartley smiled. It was a small smile, weathered and kind. "I don't think there's a way to know. I think you just have to decide that the possibility of something good is worth the risk of something bad."
"That's terrifying."
"Yes. It usually is."
Ava looked down at her phone. She unlocked it, opened Jake's messages, and read through them again.
Hey. Just so you know, I'm not a serial killer. I'm a business major. That's almost the same thing, but with better networking opportunities.
That's reassuring. I'm a psych major. So I'll know if you're lying.
A psych major who runs six-minute miles and has a mysterious shoulder thing. You're basically a superhero.
One more thing. What's your favorite coffee order? I'm asking for a friend.
Oat milk latte.Extra shot.
Your friend has good taste. See you soon, Gym Girl.
She smiled. She couldn't help it. The smile came unbidden, bubbling up from somewhere beneath the anxiety and the fear and the shame. It was real. It was hers.
"Ava?"Dr. Hartley said gently.
She looked up.
"You don't have to decide right now. But if you're going to decide, decide with intention. Not from fear."
Ava nodded. She slid her phone into her pocket and stood up. Her legs felt steadier than they had when she'd walked in.
"Same time next week?"she asked.
"Same time next week."
She paused at the door. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. And Ava?"
She turned.
"Let yourself have this. Whatever happens. You deserve to try."
Ava stepped out of the office and into the hallway. The building was quiet—just the hum of the elevator and the distant murmur of a receptionist's phone call. She walked past the waiting room, past the reception desk, past the potted plant that had been dying slowly for the entire year she'd been coming here.
The front door opened onto the street. Sunlight hit her face, warm and bright, and she closed her eyes and tilted her head back and just stood there for a second, letting it wash over her.
Then she pulled out her phone.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Hey. Coffee today? 3pm?
She hit send before she could think about it.
The reply came twenty seconds later.
I'll be there. Send me the address.
Ava typed the name of a café near campus—small, quiet, tucked away on a side street where no one would see her if she panicked. She sent it and slid her phone back into her pocket.
Her heart was beating fast. Not panic-fast. Not fear-fast.
Just fast.
She started walking. The sun was warm on her shoulders, and the air smelled like spring—cut grass and car exhaust and something faintly sweet, like someone's laundry. A breeze pushed her hair across her face, and she tucked it behind her ear.
She was terrified. Every step felt like walking toward a cliff.
But she kept walking anyway.
The café was exactly what Ava needed—dim lighting, quiet corners, the kind of place where no one would notice if she had a breakdown in the middle of a conversation. She got there ten minutes early and ordered a coffee she didn't drink, just to have something to do with her hands.
She picked a table in the back corner. Her back to the wall. A clear view of the door.
At 3:02, Jake walked in.
He was wearing a hoodie and jeans—which was somehow more disarming than the gym clothes, more casual, more real. He spotted her immediately and smiled, and Ava felt her stomach flip.
"Hey," he said, sliding into the chair across from her. "You came."
"I said I would."
"I know. I just—" He shook his head. "I wasn't sure. After yesterday."
Ava wrapped both hands around her coffee cup. "I'm sorry about that. Really."
"You don't have to apologize." Jake leaned back in his chair. "I'm just glad you're here."
They sat in silence for a moment. The café hummed around them—the hiss of the espresso machine, the low murmur of other conversations, the clink of ceramic on wood. Jake didn't fill the quiet with nervous chatter. He just waited.
"Can I ask you something?" Ava said.
"Anything."
"Why are you here? Really. You could be anywhere. With anyone. Why waste your time on the girl who ran away from you?"
Jake's expression flickered. For a second, he looked almost uncomfortable—like she'd hit a nerve.
"Because you didn't pretend," he said. "Everyone I meet pretends. They pretend to be interested in my family's money, or they pretend they don't care, or they pretend to be someone they're not. You didn't do any of that. You just—you were real. And then you ran away. And I wanted to know why."
Ava's throat tightened. "It's a long story."
"I've got time."
She looked at him—really looked at him. The dimple in his left cheek. The way his hands rested on the table, relaxed and open. The small scar above his eyebrow that she hadn't noticed before.
"Okay," she said. "But I need you to understand something first."
"Okay."
"Sometimes I react to things differently than other people. Touch especially. It's not about you. It's about me. And if I—if I flinch or pull away, it doesn't mean I don't want you there. It just means my body is doing something I can't control."
Jake didn't look away. He didn't flinch or shift or give her that pitying look she hated. He just nodded.
"Thank you for telling me."
"That's it?"
"What else should I say?"
"I don't know. Most people ask what happened. Or they promise they'll be careful, and then they're not."
Jake considered that. "I'm not going to promise anything I can't deliver. But I can promise I'll listen. And I won't push."
Ava stared at him. Her cup was warm in her hands. The café was quiet. The world outside kept moving, cars and people and sunshine, but in here, time felt still.
"That's all I need," she said.
Jake smiled. It was different from his gym smile—softer, less practiced. Like he'd taken off a mask he didn't realize he'd been wearing.
"So," he said. "You're a psych major. What's your take on me?"
Ava laughed. Once again, it startled her—the sound escaping before she could stop it.
"I think you're complicated," she said.
"Complicated how?"
"You play the playboy. You know you're good-looking. You know people like you. You use it. But you also asked me why I ran away, and you didn't ask for the story. You asked for the reason. That's not something a shallow person would do."
Jake raised his eyebrows. "Definitely a psych major."
"You asked."
"I did." He took a sip of his coffee. "Okay, fair. I'll admit—I do play the playboy. But I'm also tired of it. I want something real."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I don't want to be with someone who only sees the surface. I want someone who sees the mess underneath and doesn't run."
Ava looked down at her cup. The coffee had gone cold, but she drank it anyway.
"That's what I'm afraid of," she said quietly. "That if someone sees the mess, they'll run."
"Maybe you and I are more alike than you think."
She looked up. Jake's eyes were on her—steady, patient, no expectation. Just waiting.
"I'd like to find out," he said.
Ava's heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking against the cup. But she didn't run.
"Okay," she said. "Let's find out."
The café hummed with the low chatter of other patrons, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of cups against saucers. Ava found herself sinking into the rhythm of it—the way Jake's voice rose and fell, the way his hands moved when he talked, the way he laughed at his own jokes before he even finished them.
"So I'm sitting in this finance lecture," Jake said, leaning forward, "and the professor asks us to define 'liquidity.' And I swear to God, this guy in the front row—complete tool, wears a suit to class—raises his hand and says, 'It's when you have enough cash to buy drinks for everyone at the bar.'"
Ava snorted into her coffee. "Did he get kicked out?"
"Professor just stared at him for like ten seconds. Then she said, 'That's the most honest answer I've heard all semester.'"
"That's actually kind of beautiful."
"It was. I almost respected him." Jake grinned. "Almost."
They'd been talking for over an hour. The coffee had gone cold in Ava's cup, but she didn't care. She couldn't remember the last time she'd sat in one place for this long without her skin crawling.
Jake kept his hands on his side of the table. He didn't lean too close. He didn't reach for her. It was like he'd drawn an invisible line and decided to respect it, and Ava noticed. She noticed everything.
"So what about you?" Jake asked. "What's the worst thing you've seen in a psych lecture?"
"Someone cried during a discussion about attachment theory."
"That's not that bad."
"This was a 6'4" rugby player. He was sobbing. Full-on sobbing. And then three other people started crying, and pretty soon half the class was in tears, and the professor just stood there like—" Ava mimicked a blank-faced stare.
Jake laughed. The sound was low and warm, and it filled the space between them. "I would've paid to see that."
"It was deeply uncomfortable."
"Or deeply beautiful."
"Same thing."
Jake's smile softened. He looked at her like she'd said something profound instead of just parroting his own joke back at him. Ava looked away first, her cheeks flushing.
"What about your friends?" she asked, steering the conversation somewhere safer. "You mentioned you go to parties. Who do you go with?"
"My roommate, Derek. He's a communications major. Thinks he's going to be the next Joe Rogan."
"Is he?"
"He's got the voice for it. Deep, obnoxious, never shuts up." Jake shrugged. "But he's loyal. He's been my best friend since freshman year. He's the only person who tells me when I'm being an asshole."
"Does that happen often?"
"Me being an asshole? More than I'd like to admit." Jake's expression flickered—something honest, almost vulnerable. "I'm trying to be better."
Ava filed that away. Noted the way his voice dropped when he said it. Noted the way his fingers tapped against the table, like he was nervous.
"What about you?" he asked. "Who do you hang out with?"
"My roommate, Mia. She's—" Ava paused, searching for the right word. "A lot."
"A lot how?"
"She has a guy tied to her bed right now."
Jake blinked."What?"
"He's her boytoy. It's a whole thing." Ava waved a hand. "I walked in on them this morning. He ended up chewing my gym socks."
Jake stared at her for a beat. Then he burst out laughing. It was loud—loud enough that a couple of people at the next table glanced over—and Ava felt her face go red.
"You're joking," he said.
"I wish I was."
"Your gym socks?"
"He was gagged. Mia shoved them in his mouth to shut him up."
Jake was wheezing now, one hand pressed against his chest. "I'm—I'm sorry, I'm trying to process this. Your roommate has a sex dungeon?"
"It's not a dungeon. It's more of a—" Ava hesitated. "—a lifestyle."
"A lifestyle."
"She's very open about it."
"I can tell." Jake wiped his eyes. "Okay. I have to meet this Mia. She sounds incredible."
"She's terrifying. You'd love her."
"I definitely would."
They talked for another hour. About classes, about professors, about the bar on Fifth where Jake had once witnessed a fistfight over a karaoke song. About Ava's fear of crowds, which she mentioned casually—just enough to test the waters, and Jake nodded and moved on without making it weird. About Jake's family, which he mentioned briefly, and Ava caught the edge of something sharp in his voice before he changed the subject.
The afternoon light shifted from gold to amber. The café emptied out, then filled up again with the dinner crowd. Ava checked her phone and was surprised to see it was almost six.
"I should go," she said. "I have a paper due Thursday."
Jake nodded. He didn't argue. He didn't try to convince her to stay. He just stood up and grabbed his hoodie from the back of his chair.
"Can I walk you home?"he asked.
Ava hesitated. Her first instinct was no. Her second instinct was still no, but quieter. Her third instinct was something else entirely—something warm and curious that she didn't have a name for.
"Okay," she said.
The night air was cool against her face. The streets were quiet—just a few cars, a couple walking their dog, the distant hum of a city winding down. Jake fell into step beside her, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed.
He didn't touch her. He didn't walk too close. When they passed other people on the sidewalk, he angled his body to put himself between her and them—not in a showy way, just instinctive. Like he was trying to shield her from the world without making a thing of it.
Ava's chest swelled. She didn't know why. It was such a small thing—such a tiny, insignificant gesture—but it made her feel something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Safe.
They reached a crossing. The light was red. Jake stopped beside her, and Ava's hand brushed against his—just a graze, just the back of her knuckles against the side of his palm.
She felt him tense. Felt him start to pull away, to give her space.
She didn't let him.
Instead, she turned to face him. Jake was already looking at her. His eyes were dark in the streetlight, his expression unreadable.
He didn't say anything. He just slowly, carefully, turned his hand over—palm up.An invitation. Nothing more.
Ava stared at it. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to run, to pull back, to protect herself.
She reached out anyway.
Her fingers slid into his. His palm closed around hers—warm, gentle, steady. Ava braced herself for the shock. She waited for the panic to surge up her throat, for the screaming in her head to start.
It didn't come.
Instead, she felt something else. A slow warmth spreading up from her hand, through her wrist, into her chest. Her breathing stayed even. Her pulse steadied. She squeezed his fingers, and he squeezed back.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah." Ava's voice came out soft. Surprised. "I think I am."
They crossed the street hand in hand. Jake adjusted his pace to match hers—short steps, unhurried. He didn't drag her forward or rush her. He just walked beside her, like they had all the time in the world.
Neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say. The silence was comfortable, easy, like a blanket draped over both their shoulders.
They reached Ava's apartment building too soon. It was a squat brick structure with a flickering porch light and a front door that needed a new coat of paint. Ava stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to face Jake.
"This is me," she said.
"I figured."
"I had a good time today."
"Me too." Jake's thumb brushed against her knuckles—just once, a small, unconscious gesture. "Can we do it again?"
Ava nodded. "I'd like that."
Jake hesitated. She could see the war on his face—the urge to lean in, to close the distance, to do something more than just hold her hand. But he didn't. He just squeezed her fingers, then let go.
"I'll text you," he said.
He turned to leave.
Ava didn't think. She just moved. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her face against his chest. She felt him freeze. Felt his breath catch.
Then his arms came up slowly, carefully—so slowly she could have pulled away at any moment. They settled around her shoulders, light and warm and gentle.
Ava melted into him. Her eyes closed. Her body relaxed. She could hear his heartbeat through his hoodie—steady and strong, like a metronome.
He smelled like coffee and clean laundry and something faintly woodsy. She breathed him in and felt something loosen in her chest—something that had been knotted for years.
Jake's chin rested against the top of her head. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just held her.
After a long moment, he pulled back—just enough to look at her face. His eyes were soft. His mouth curved into a small smile.
Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was slow. Gentle. And Ava felt the warmth of his lips against her skin, and felt a beautiful tingle run through her body.
He pulled away. Ava opened her eyes.
"Goodnight, Ava," he said.
"Goodnight, Jake."
He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose. Ava watched him until he disappeared around the corner. Then she let herself into the building, climbed the stairs, and unlocked her apartment door.
The living room was quiet. Mia's bedroom door was closed, but the light was on—a thin strip of yellow spilling across the floorboards. Ava could hear the low murmur of voices, the creak of the bed. She didn't care.
She flopped onto the sofa with a giggle. It bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest—light and silly and utterly unstoppable.
The giggle became a laugh. A real laugh. The kind she hadn't heard from herself in years.
The bedroom door opened. Mia emerged in an oversized t-shirt, her hair a wild mess, her lips curved into a knowing grin.
"I heard that," she said. "Tell me everything."
Ava sat up, still grinning. "Where's your boytoy?"
"In there. Tied to the headboard. He's fine." Mia waved a hand. "Shut up and stay," she called over her shoulder.
A muffled whimper drifted from the bedroom.
Mia dropped onto the sofa beside Ava and pulled her knees up to her chest. "So. Coffee with Jake."
"Coffee with Jake."
"And?"
"And it was..." Ava paused. She searched for the right word. "Nice."
"Nice?" Mia's eyebrows shot up. "Nice? That's all I get?"
"He walked me home."
"He walked you home?"
"We held hands."
Mia's jaw dropped. "You held hands?"
"And he kissed my forehead."
"HE KISSED YOUR—" Mia clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, sparkling with delight. "Ava. Ava. This is huge. This is monumental. This is—" She grabbed Ava's shoulders and shook her. "—the best thing I've ever heard."
Ava laughed again. It felt good. It felt like sunshine.
"I know," she said."I know."
Mia released her and sat back. Her grin softened into something warmer. "How do you feel?"
Ava thought about it. She thought about the way Jake's hand had felt wrapped around hers. The way he'd walked on the outside of the sidewalk, shielding her from the crowd. The way he'd held her without pushing, without demanding, without making her feel like she owed him anything.
She thought about the kiss on her forehead. The warmth of it. The gentleness.
"Good," she said. "I feel good."
Mia's eyes glistened. She blinked rapidly and looked away.
"Don't you dare cry," Ava warned.
"I'm not crying. I'm just—" Mia wiped her eyes. "—I'm proud of you. That's all."
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
They sat in comfortable silence. From the bedroom, the boytoy whimpered again. Mia rolled her eyes.
"I should probably go deal with that," she said.
"Probably."
Mia stood up. She paused at the hallway and looked back at Ava. "Hey."
"What?"
"Don't overthink this. You deserve to be happy. Even if it's scary."
Ava nodded. "I'm trying."
"That's all you can do."
Mia disappeared into her bedroom. The door clicked shut. A moment later, the whimpering stopped, replaced by the rhythmic creak of bedsprings.
Ava stayed on the sofa. She pulled out her phone and opened Jake's messages.
She typed: I had a really good time today.
His reply came almost instantly: Me too. Same time next week?
She smiled. Typed back: It's a date.
Then she set the phone down and closed her eyes. Her chest felt light. Her hands felt warm. And somewhere beneath the scar tissue, beneath the fear and the panic and the years of running, something small and fragile had started to bloom.
She let it.