Celestine was trained to notice patterns.
In therapy, in behavior, in people who lied with their mouths but screamed with their eyes.
And Paul Mercado—Mr. Magnetic, Mr. Voice-Like-Wine—was a walking contradiction. He touched others.9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg9rhs17Jh7
He looked into them.9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡij7ed6v6Bn
He unraveled them.
But no one—no one—ever touched him.
Not casually. Not kindly. Not even accidentally.
By Day Four of the retreat, she'd seen enough sessions to confirm it.
He guided others' hands, cupped their cheeks, whispered across skin like he was sculpting breath.
But when someone reached for him, even something as innocent as a brush of a shoulder?
He moved.
Subtly. Politely. Effortlessly.
But deliberately.
Celestine wrote in her notes that night:
"Subject shows compulsive avoidance of physical reception. Possible trauma-linked response. Masked by dominant control."
Then below that, without meaning to:
"Starving. Hiding."
She stared at that word for a long time.
Then she closed her notebook.
The next day, she cornered him by the koi pond after a session.
He was alone, watching the water ripple.
"Why don't you let anyone touch you?"
Paul didn't turn. "I could ask you the same thing."
"I'm not teaching sensuality as therapy."
He smiled, just barely. "Then maybe I am the better liar."
Celestine stepped closer. "You avoid contact. Intimacy. Reciprocity."
"Observation sharp as ever."
"You perform connection. But you reject it."
Now he looked at her. Not with amusement. With something older. Darker.
"I know what happens when you let someone in, Doctor. They leave. Or worse, they stay long enough to learn how to break you from the inside out."
She didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
Because now he was the one trembling.
"You loved her," she said quietly. "Whoever she was."
He looked down.
"I let her in," he whispered. "Elise. She didn't want my hands or my voice. She wanted silence. Stillness. She wanted me without the persona. Without the King."
"What happened?"
"I gave her everything. Then I flinched once. Pushed her hand away... and she never touched me again."
He let out a soft laugh that sounded like it hurt.
"She said, 'You can teach a thousand women to open up, but you'll die too afraid to let anyone hold you.'"
Celestine stood beside him.
Quiet. Unmoving.
Then, slowly, she reached out her hand and—paused. Inches from his.
"May I?"
Paul didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Then—he nodded.
Just once.
Her fingers barely grazed his.
And his eyes shut, like the smallest touch burned.
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