"Dr. Kaelen," he said. "Thank you for coming."
The door clicked shut behind me. Vigdis was gone.
We were alone.
"You can call me Aeth," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "If we're going to spend twelve weeks together, 'Dr. Kaelen feels... formal."
He tilted his head slightly, considering. "Aeth, then. Please, sit."
He gestured to the sofa. I sat, and he took the armchair across from me—close enough for conversation, far enough to maintain that careful distance he seemed to measure in exact increments.
"You wanted clarifications?" I asked.
"I wanted to ensure you're prepared for tomorrow," he said. "Not logistically—Vigdis will escort you at the appropriate time. But psychologically. The first session is often the most difficult. Not because of what happens, but because of what it represents."
"Which is?"
"The moment you stop theorizing and start experiencing." His pale gray eyes held mine. "You've read the Guidelines. You understand the structure. But reading about surrender and choosing it in real time are entirely different things."
"I know that," I said. "That's why I'm here."
"Is it?" He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. "Or are you here because you've exhausted every other option and this is the last desperate attempt to feel something?"
The question landed like ice water.
"Does it matter?" I asked carefully.
"Yes." His voice was quiet but firm. "Because desperation and choice are not the same thing. Desperation will make you rush past your boundaries. Choice will make you honor them."
I took a breath. "Then I'm here because I chose this. I choose to stop managing everything and let someone else guide me toward something I can't reach on my own."
"Better," he said. And there—just for a second—a flicker of approval in his expression. "Tomorrow night, we'll establish your safe word. That word is absolute. If you say it, everything stops. No questions, no negotiation."
"I read that in the Guidelines," I said quietly.
"Reading it and internalizing it are different." He leaned back, watching me with that unnerving focus. "Some clients hesitate to use their safe word because they feel they're failing. That they're not strong enough, not committed enough. But using your safe word isn't failure. It's the most powerful choice you can make."
"Noted," I said.
"I need you to say it back to me."
I blinked. "What?"
"Tell me, in your own words, what your safe word means."
This was a test. Everything with him was a test.
"My safe word means I've reached a genuine limit," I said slowly, working through it. "Not discomfort—that's expected. But a limit where continuing would cause harm rather than growth. Using it isn't a weakness. It's honoring my own boundaries, which is... the entire point of the methodology."
Something shifted in his expression. Satisfaction, maybe.
"Good," he said. "Now. I need to ask you some questions. They'll be personal. If you're uncomfortable answering, say so. But the more I understand your baseline, the more effective the Praxis will be."
My heart was pounding now. "Okay," I said quietly.
"When was the last time you felt genuinely aroused?"
The question was so direct, so clinical, that it took me a second to process it—or to process the reason for the question. I'd asked patients about their sex lives a thousand times. I knew the therapeutic value of sexual history. But sitting here, being the subject instead of the therapist, made every professional instinct I had clash with the sudden heat spreading through my chest.
This was data collection. I already knew that. But it didn't feel clinical. Not with his eyes on me, watchful and precise.
"I—" I stopped. Thought about it. "I don't know. Months? A year?"
"Not with a partner," he clarified, leaning forward slightly. "With anyone. Including yourself."
Heat crawled up my neck, and I suddenly felt a lump in my throat. The specificity of the question—including yourself—stripped away any remaining professional distance. He wasn't asking about my relationship history. He was asking when I'd last wanted anything at all.
"The same," I said quietly. "I stopped... trying. It felt mechanical. Pointless."
He nodded, making a mental note. No judgment in his expression. Just observation. But I could feel the weight of what I'd admitted: I'd given up on my own desire completely.
"And before that?" he asked. "When arousal was still accessible to you—what triggered it?"
I hesitated. This was the moment where I could deflect, give a vague answer, and maintain some distance. But that would defeat the entire purpose of being here.
"Are you asking what turns me on?" I asked, buying myself a second.
"I'm asking what used to turn you on, before you shut it down."
I looked away, staring at the fireplace. This was harder than I'd expected. Not because the questions were inappropriate—I'd signed a contract that gave him explicit permission to ask anything—but because answering required admitting things I'd been avoiding for years.
"Anticipation," I said finally. "Not knowing what would happen next. The moment before something happened, not the thing itself."
"Mind to elaborate?" He urged.
I forced myself to meet his eyes again and then managed to continue. "The tension. The buildup. Feeling like I was on the edge of something and couldn't quite reach it. That was... intoxicating. More than the release ever was."
"So you're aroused by delay," he said. "By the withholding of gratification."
"I—" I paused. "I guess so. I never thought about it that way."
"You should." He leaned forward again, and the space between us felt suddenly smaller. "Because that's what the Praxis will give you. Not immediate satisfaction, but sustained tension. The Edge, approached repeatedly, until you learn to exist there without needing to escape it."
My breathing had quickened, and I couldn't control it. I could hear it, and I knew he could too.
"Does that frighten you?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied barely above a whisper.
"Good. Fear and arousal often coexist. The question is whether you'll let the fear stop you or drive you."
"I don't know yet," I said honestly.
"That's acceptable. You don't need to know. You just need to show up tomorrow and choose, moment by moment, whether to continue."
He stood then, and I realized the conversation was ending.
"Wait," I said, standing too. "Can I ask you something?"
He paused. "Go ahead."
"Why evening sessions? Why not during the day?"
His expression was unreadable as he replied. "Because evening removes distractions. The Institute is quieter. Your cognitive defenses are lower after a full day of processing. And because darkness changes the psychological landscape. It makes vulnerability easier."
"For me or for you?" The words were out before I could stop them.
Something flashed across his face—surprise, maybe, or irritation that I had turned the analysis on him.
"For you," he said evenly. "Everything I do is for your benefit, Dr. Kaelen. That's the agreement. You understand?"
The return to my formal name was deliberate. A boundary re-established.
"Of course," I said quietly.
He walked to the door and opened it. Vigdis was waiting in the corridor.
"Vigdis will take you back to the East Wing," Meric said. "Rest tonight. Eat a full meal tomorrow. Arrive on time."
"I will."
He met my eyes one last time, and for just a second, I thought I saw something unguarded there. But then it was gone, replaced by that clinical mask.
"Goodnight, Aeth," he said.
And closed the door.
I followed Vigdis back through the corridors in silence, my mind racing.
For you. Everything I do is for your benefit.
But his answer had been too quick. Too defensive.
He'd asked me about arousal, about fear, about the edge between the two. But he'd deflected the moment I'd asked him anything personal.
Which meant the evening sessions weren't just about my defenses.
They were about his. At least, that's what I believed.
And that made me want tomorrow night even more.