Deviant Obsession

Chapter 5

Rhea

Hushed whispers and the clacking of computer keys float around the library as I stare at the same paragraph for what feels like the hundredth time. Dean's smug face keeps swimming into view, those blue eyes boring into me across the restaurant the other night, making my skin prickle with unease. I shake my head, trying to dispel the memory, and force myself to focus on the stack of research papers spread across the worn wooden table.

My hands tremble slightly as I sort the articles into neat piles. Methodology reviews to the left, arranged by publication date. Case studies in the center, color-coded tabs marking key findings. Theoretical frameworks to the right, annotated with my own careful observations. The familiar routine of organizing usually soothes my nerves, but today my stomach keeps doing backflips. In less than an hour, I'll be sitting in Professor Shaw's office.

Professor Shaw.

Just thinking his name sends a fresh wave of butterflies through my belly. I check my phone again. 2:15p.m. Forty-five minutes until my scheduled office hours appointment. That’s if I don’t keel over before then from the sheer anxiety.

A shadow passes over my papers, and I jump, heart leaping into my throat, half-expecting to see Dean looming over me. But it's just another student walking past my secluded corner. Still, the memory of that threatening, icy stare makes me shiver. The way he looked at me...like he could see right through my clothes, right into my soul. Like he was marking me as a target with a red laser.

Focus, Rhea.

I pull my notebook closer, double-checking my citations for the thousandth time. My normally neat handwriting has gotten progressively shakier as the afternoon wears on, betraying my nervous energy. The margins are filled with questions I want to ask, theories I hope to discuss.

How am I supposed to have an intelligent conversation about epigenetic trauma markers when I can barely hold my pen steady?

I flip through my extensively highlighted copy of the professor’s latest paper, the pages practically falling open to my favorite passages. My fingertips trace his words, imagining his voice speaking them. The way his tempting lips formed around complex terminology in that first lecture, making even the driest scientific concepts sound like poetry.

At fifteen till three, I finally admit defeat. There's no point pretending I'm getting any more work done. I carefully pack away my materials, making sure all my papers are perfectly aligned in my folder. Each article is sorted by topic, each note card precisely placed. The walk to the Psychology building takes exactly seven minutes—I've timed it multiple times this week—which means I'll arrive five minutes early. Professional, but not overeager.

I hope.

The breeze catches my hair as I cross the quad, tossing my curls across my face, and I frantically smooth them back into place. I spent an embarrassingly long time this morning choosing my outfit; a pair of charcoal jeans that aren’t too tight but also not too baggy, and a silk blouse that walks the line between student and future colleague. The blouse is pale green, perfect for bringing out my eyes.

Not that I chose it for that reason. Obviously.

My boots were another careful choice. They have heels high enough to feel classy, but low enough to avoid looking like I'm trying too hard.

The Psychology building looms ahead quicker than I’d hoped, all red brick and climbing ivy. Golden afternoon light streams through the tall windows as I enter, reflecting off the polished hardwood floors while I make my way up to the second floor. With each step, my lungs feel like they’re caught in a vice, making it impossible to suck in a full breath.

I'm nearly at his door when I hear it—that deep, smooth voice that haunts my dreams. He's on the phone, the rich tones carrying through the partially open door.

"...need those results by Friday at the latest. The implications of this study..."

I freeze mid-step, suddenly uncertain. Should I wait until he's finished? Knock anyway? What's the protocol here? I check my phone again.

2:57p.m.

Eventually, the sound of him saying his goodbyes and tossing his phone down onto his desk makes all the questioning and self-doubt totally redundant, but still, I hesitate.

My knuckles hover inches from the heavy wooden door, my blood thundering in my ears. This is ridiculous. He's just a professor. An incredibly brilliant, devastatingly handsome professor who makes my knees weak every time he looks in my direction. But still…just a professor.

I force myself to knock, the sound embarrassingly faint. For a moment I wonder if he even heard it.

Please, Lord, don’t make me have to do it again.

But then I hear, "Come in."

Two syllables shouldn't be able to make my heart race like this, and I’m in serious danger of wearing it out completely before the semester is over. I take another attempt at a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm my nerves and reach for the door handle.

Professor Shaw sits behind an imposing oak desk, sunlight streaming through tall windows behind him, highlighting golden streaks in his chestnut hair. His welcoming invitation makes my stomach clench as I step inside, taking in the carefully curated domain. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, leather-bound volumes and academic journals arranged with meticulous care. The air carries hints of leather and aged paper, mixed with something warmer, spicier… His cologne, perhaps.

I want to bathe in the scent.

"How’s it going? Please, have a seat," he says warmly, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. But, in my nervousness—and some halfhearted, awkward attempt at a wave—I fumble my folder. Papers scatter across his Persian rug in a mortifying display of clumsiness.

"Shit! I'm so sorry," I stammer, quickly dropping to my knees to gather them. He rises smoothly from his chair, making his way around the desk to help me. Our fingers brush as we both grab for the same page, sending a shock up my arm like I’d touched an electric fence. I snatch my hand back, clutching the papers to my chest as I scramble into the visitor's chair.

Of course, my cheeks are on fire.

"I've been anticipating our discussion, Miss Foster," the professor says, a slightly bemused smile curling the corner of his mouth as he settles back into his own seat. His voice holds that same hypnotic quality it does in lectures, but it’s somehow infinitely more intimate in this enclosed space.

"I... please, call me Rhea... if that's okay... or not, um, if it’s not appropriate…" Though I didn’t think it was possible, more heat creeps up my neck at my own boldness.

He grins even wider at that. "Rhea, it is. Tell me, how are you getting on with the research for your first assignment? What drew you to your chosen topic?"

I take a steadying breath, willing my poor, exhausted heart to slow. "It was your paper on inherited trauma responses in Holocaust survivors' grandchildren, actually. I found it during my sophomore year when I was supposed to be researching something else entirely." The memory brings a shy smile to my face. "I stayed up all night reading it, then tracked down everything else you'd published. The way you connected generational patterns to measurable biological markers... It blew my mind. I knew there and then that I wanted to dig deeper into generational trauma, to see what I could bring to this field that affects so many people."

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk. "I see. What made that particular aspect resonate with you?"

"My parents..." I hesitate, then push forward. "They're very conservative. Religious fundamentalists, actually. When I told them I wanted to study psychology, they said it was ungodly—that people just needed prayer and faith, not therapy." I wring my fingers in my lap, my gaze suddenly fixed on a small scratch in the surface of his polished desk. "But I kept seeing these patterns in our church community. Children inheriting their parents' fears, their rigid beliefs, their..." I trail off, not wanting to say too much. There’s a moment of heavy silence before I finally summon the courage to look up again.

His hazel eyes fix on mine with laser focus. "Their trauma?"

I nod, transfixed by the intensity of his gaze. "They call it tradition or discipline or obedience. But the signs are there if you know what to look for. The hypervigilance, the attachment issues..." I realize I'm rambling, getting too personal, and force myself to stop.

"And that's what made you want to pursue psychology?" He's leaning as far forward now as the furniture between us will allow, utterly still except for his fingers drumming once against the desk.

"Yes. I want to help break those cycles. Your research showed me it was possible—that we're not just fighting abstract concepts, but clear patterns, and actual, biological changes we can identify and address." My passion for the subject overtakes my nervousness like wiping away steam from a mirror. "The way you mapped the methylation patterns in trauma survivors compared to control groups... It gave me hope that we could quantify these impacts, make them impossible to dismiss as imagination or…or weakness."

The sunlight catches in his eyes, turning them a molten amber as he studies me, making the green flecks dance. "Most of my students don't dig quite so deeply into the methodology."

"I probably sound like such a starstruck fanatic," I admit with an embarrassed huff, dropping my gaze to my lap again. "I've read everything you've published at least twice."

"Not at all. Your passion is... encouraging ." His voice has dropped lower, licking down my spine like warm honey. "I worry sometimes that I’m wasting my time with teaching. Most students lack your dedication. I wonder on occasion if I’d be better off going back to seeing patients full-time."

“I’m glad you’ve stuck with teaching so far,” I mumble, almost to myself. “I was thrilled to land a place in your class.”

Silence descends again. This time I’m terrified my pathetic gushing has made him uncomfortable. I’m almost ready to run from the room when he finally speaks again.

"Well, I’m glad to have you in it, Rhea. Tell me more about what you envision for your future work," he says, breaking the unbearable tension.

I glance up eagerly, my embarrassment temporarily forgotten in the excitement of discussing my dreams with someone who will understand them. Someone who won't dismiss them as ungodly or impractical. Someone who makes me feel seen in a way no one else ever has.

"I want to help people who have been..." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "People who've been taught that their pain isn't valid. That suffering in silence is virtuous." My fingers clench again as memories surface—prayer circles instead of counseling, shame instead of support.

"You speak from experience." It's not quite a question.

"My community... Everything was about appearances. Perfect families, perfect faith, perfect obedience. But behind closed doors..." I trail off, surprised by my own candidness. Something about his steady gaze makes me want to bare my soul.

"The pressure to maintain that facade must have been intense," he observes, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. I’m not speaking to the professor anymore. This man is the therapist, the patient counsellor who knows how to navigate difficult topics with tact.

"It’s suffocating. Well…it was. My parents told me never to come home once I told them I’d gotten a scholarship to come here." I manage a grim smile. "They think psychology is just secular humanism trying to replace God. That seeking help means your faith isn't strong enough. And that California is a fiery pit of bikinis and debauchery."

He waits until I release a timid giggle before allowing his own smile to spread across his face. It’s uncanny how he reads my expressions before choosing how to respond. Like he knows exactly what will comfort me in the moment, his presence magnetic. "And yet, here you are."

"Here I am," I agree softly. "A long way from Nebraska. From reading forbidden psychology texts under my covers at night like other girls read romance novels."

"I doubt my research papers provided quite the same thrill," he chuckles.

Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm sorry, that was a dumb thing to say... I don’t mean to joke about your life’s work. I?—"

“Relax, Rhea.” He interrupts my mortified rambling, holding up a calming hand. “I understood your point completely. You never have to worry about articulating your experiences in whichever way they make sense to you.”

I can only gape at him for a moment, unsure what to say next. I’m not used to having such an open conversation about my past or interests. His gaze holds mine for a minute that stretches into eternity, and I briefly allow myself to imagine I see something dark, something hungry there, before he blinks, and it's gone.

It takes every ounce of discipline I can muster to drag my mind out of the gutter. I don’t know if it’s all that taunting from Dean and his friends at that party, or if it’s Nat’s insistence that I start letting loose and truly experiencing life before my time at college is over.

Whatever it is, I can’t seem to concentrate on anything beyond the carnal urge to launch myself over this desk and let my favorite professor ravage me.

Even worse, though… is the knowing gleam in his eye that makes me think he can see every single depraved thought that dances between my burning ears.