I FELT HIM BEFORE I SAW HIM

Chapter 11 – Under My Skin

Nothing felt urgent that morning.

That was what unsettled me first. No spike of anxiety. No pressure in my chest demanding attention. Just a quiet alertness beneath my skin, steady and persistent, as if my body had adjusted itself overnight without asking permission.

I moved through the corridor slower than usual, aware of each step, each sound. My thoughts stayed unusually still, but my muscles didn’t relax. They remained engaged, waiting—not for danger, but for alignment.

It wasn’t fear.

It was readiness.

By the time I reached my office, I already knew this wasn’t a passing reaction. Whatever had shifted in me had settled too deeply, too cleanly, to be dismissed as stress.

And ignoring it felt more dangerous than acknowledging it.

I realized something was wrong the moment my body reacted before my thoughts did.

That had never been my pattern.

I had built my career on distance—on observing first, feeling later. Sensation was something to be examined, not obeyed. Now it arrived uninvited, sharp and immediate, bypassing the mental filters I relied on.

It began subtly.

A persistent tension in my shoulders when I reviewed the schedule.

A tightening low in my abdomen when footsteps slowed outside my office.

An awareness of my own pulse whenever his unit number appeared on the screen.

I told myself it was stress.

I told myself it was fatigue.

Neither explanation held.

When Dave brought Santiago in that afternoon, everything followed protocol. The session was scheduled. Logged. Documented. The door closed with its usual metallic finality.

And yet my body registered the moment as if something had shifted beneath the surface.

Santiago sat when instructed. His movements were precise, economical. He didn’t look at me right away.

That should have reassured me.

Instead, I felt the absence of his gaze like pressure—an unoccupied space that demanded attention. My skin prickled, my breath shortening slightly before I corrected it.

“You’re quieter today,” I said.

“So are you,” he replied.

I didn’t comment.

I remained behind the desk longer than necessary, using the furniture as a boundary rather than a convenience. My palms rested flat against the surface, fingers splayed, grounding myself in something solid.

“How have you been sleeping?” I asked.

“Better.”

I wrote it down, even though I already knew the answer.

“And your medication?”

“Unchanged.”

Another unnecessary note.

The sound of my pen against paper felt too loud in the quiet room. When I stopped writing, the silence returned immediately, dense and expectant.

“You’re tense,” he said quietly.

“That’s not your concern.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s observable.”

I looked up then.

He wasn’t staring. He wasn’t intruding. He was simply aware—his attention steady, neutral, as if my physical state were just another variable in the room.

I straightened slowly, rolling my shoulders back. The movement released nothing.

“You’re not here to monitor me,” I said.

“No,” he replied. “I’m here because you asked.”

The words landed heavily.

I had asked.

The realization tightened something beneath my ribs, a dull pressure that didn’t ease when I exhaled.

The session continued without incident. No provocation. No testing. Santiago answered questions when prompted, stopped speaking when instructed. He followed the structure I set with a precision that felt intentional.

That should have felt like success.

Instead, it unsettled me.

Control was easier against resistance.

Compliance required vigilance.

Midway through the session, I stood. The movement was instinctive, driven by the tension building in my legs. Sitting still had become uncomfortable, as if my body needed motion to discharge something it couldn’t name.

I moved around the desk, keeping a careful distance.

Santiago’s eyes followed—not possessive, not demanding. Simply registering position and change.

My skin warmed, an unwelcome response I couldn’t attribute to fear.

“You don’t have to stand,” he said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

I didn’t answer.

Because the truth felt too exposed to voice.

Because standing was easier than acknowledging the sensation pooling under my skin.

I stopped near the window, resting my hand against the glass. The cool surface grounded me slightly, the contrast sharp enough to cut through the internal noise.

“You’ve adjusted well,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You’re calmer.”

“Yes.”

“You’re functioning within limits.”

“Yes.”

I turned back toward him. “And yet?”

He paused.

“Yet you’re not.”

The words weren’t confrontational.

They were precise.

My throat tightened.

“That’s not appropriate,” I said.

“No,” he agreed. “But it is accurate.”

Heat flared beneath my skin, sudden and disorienting. My breath shortened again before I forced it steady, inhaling deeply until the sensation dulled.

“You don’t get to assess me,” I said.

“I’m not assessing,” he replied. “I’m noticing.”

The distinction struck deeper than I wanted it to.

I had become observable.

Not as authority.

As variable.

The realization landed with uncomfortable clarity.

I returned to my chair, sitting more slowly than necessary. Gravity felt heavier, my movements slightly delayed.

“We’re done for today,” I said.

There were still ten minutes left.

Santiago didn’t argue.

Dave entered to remove the restraints. Santiago stood calmly, allowing the procedure without comment. As he turned toward the door, he paused—not to look at me, but to speak.

“You’re not losing control,” he said quietly.

Dave stiffened.

I didn’t respond.

“You’re redirecting it,” Santiago continued. “That’s harder.”

The door closed behind him.

The room felt smaller.

Dave lingered. “You alright?”

“Yes.”

The word came out automatically.

He didn’t look convinced. “You’re ending sessions early.”

“I’m reinforcing boundaries.”

“Good,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Just make sure they’re yours.”

The comment stayed with me long after he left.

The rest of the day blurred. My body remained alert, every sensation slightly amplified—the pressure of fabric against my skin, the cadence of my own breathing, the constant hum of electricity in the walls.

That night, I stood under the shower longer than necessary, letting hot water run over my shoulders until my skin flushed. I pressed my palms flat against the tile, grounding myself in the physicality of the moment.

Nothing eased.

Sleep came in fragments. I woke with my jaw clenched, muscles tight, as if I’d spent the night bracing against something unseen.

The next morning, the awareness returned immediately.

Not of him.

Of myself.

Of the way my body anticipated before my mind approved. Of how my attention oriented itself without conscious direction.

This wasn’t attachment.

It was calibration.

And that realization unsettled me more than any overt transgression.

Two days later, I saw Santiago only briefly—escorted through the corridor, guards flanking him. He didn’t look at me.

But his pace adjusted.

Subtle. Immediate.

My chest tightened in response, an involuntary echo I hadn’t authorized.

I stopped walking.

The synchronization was undeniable.

That evening, alone in my office, I reviewed my notes from the past week. The data was clean. The outcomes positive. On paper, everything functioned exactly as intended.

My body disagreed.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of the slow rise and fall of my chest.

This wasn’t about broken rules.

It was about what happened when control stopped being conceptual.

When it became physical.

I closed the file.

Whatever this was, it had moved beyond the room where it began.

It was under my skin now.

And I didn’t yet know how to remove it without tearing something essential out with it.