“Tell me, what brings you here?”

That was the first question he had ever asked me, my psychiatrist.

Strict, straight to the point, without needing me to introduce myself or even himself; immediately, he wanted to know my main concern. Then again, he had probably read my files before I entered his office. 

After all, I knew where I was going; I did my research before coming in. I picked him out of many, because he was a renowned psychiatrist, highly respected in his field.

It gave hope that he could help me, fix me. See me.

I do remember how anxious I had first felt in the presence of his piercing gaze, and how I also secretly analysed him when I had first sat in front of him.

From the first glance, my psychiatrist seemed like a well groomed man, who was not only stylish, but also very fit for his age. Everything about his appearance spoke about his meticulous self-care: starting from the clean shave, neatly slicked salt-and-pepper hair, the expensive glasses supported by his hawk-like nose, to the classy look that complimented his bronze skin.

However, the bright white coat reminded me of our differences: he was my doctor and I was his patient.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where to start,” I then laughed, rubbing my pressed together knees. I could have almost managed my nerves from choking me.

“One sentence is enough,” he replied softly with a pleasant smile, as if encouraging me to take a leap—to reveal myself.

“Well I…” I murmured, trying to control the tremble of my lips.

This experience, like any other in my life, was beyond my comfort level, especially when I’m not familiar with the surroundings.

The office itself was pristine, of course, it had to be, he’s a healthcare specialist—a doctor. His environment was carefully curated, aesthetically pleasing and relaxing to the eye, with the beige and neutral tones dominating all around. Nothing to distract me: the surroundings were meant to keep me focused entirely on him. There were exotic plants that flourished in the bright room. Every item was carefully structuralised in particular order, but incredibly neatly, meant only for him to navigate through. The armchair on which I sat was expensive; the cool leather soothed my body even through the layers of clothing. I soon realised that I felt as if I wasn’t sitting in an office, but somewhere cozier, as if with a friend.

All I needed was a cup of warm chamomile tea and I would instantly forget the circumstances of our meeting.

Yet, his sharp eyes urged me to speak further. “Let’s start off slowly. What is your main complaint?”

I felt extremely shy as my psychiatrist dissected me with those intense eyes; I didn’t want him to eat me alive as I tried stuttering a word out of my mouth. I looked away.

After all, I never got used to being watched, observed. 

“I’ve seen other psychiatrists for the same problem, but none of them managed to help me. I’m afraid that my condition’s getting worse. Maybe my case is… Too difficult… I shouldn’t have said that, I’m so sorry— I probably look like a patient from hell?..”

He tapped his pen lightly on the surface of the wooden desk, slowly sedating my senses. “I’m positive that we’ll work like a great team together. I’ll offer you the tools, and you’ll decide whether you’d use them. However, both of us will need to work our best to find a solution. All I need is your trust and honesty, and I’ll do my best to guide you with the information you provide me.”

Even his voice had that pinch of charm: it was soothing and profound in a way, making me put some faith in his words for an unknown reason.

Though I’ve heard the exact phrases coming from various psychiatrists and psychologists alike.

“Alright, as you mentioned, you’ve seen other specialists in my field. From your psychiatric history I can see that you were previously prescribed Zoloft, are you still on medication?” he continued.

“Yes, Doctor, I’m still taking them,” I stammered.

With the corner of my eye, I noticed a twitch of his lips when I referred to him by his title.

Maybe it was my imagination at that time, I don’t really know.

“I’ve noticed that you seem to have difficulty maintaining eye contact.”

I didn’t reply, only pulling a bottle of water out of my bag. That sip was so refreshing, but it still couldn’t quite calm my spasming nerve buds that were slowly squeezing my brain.

However, I was glad that my quietness didn’t irritate my psychiatrist so far. Some doctors didn’t even try to hide it, pointing at me and my problems, though they were fully aware of the reason why I came to their offices, or hospitals.

And he was so patient.

“I suspect that being here is hard for you,” he thought loudly.

I kept my eyes on his neatly fondled hands, slowly climbing upwards.

“It is.”

“Do you have a hard time talking to people?”

I nodded carefully.

“Do you have any friends, relatives, anyone to talk to?” he asked, narrowing his head a little as he placed his elbows on the desk. He was trying to catch my gaze.

“I… I don’t,” I mumbled.

He tapped the pen in rhythm like before. He didn’t write anything; he was entirely focused on me, speaking ever so slowly, to not scare me, “Gathering the information you’ve given me, and from reading your case, you’re suffering from social anxiety, correct?”

“I was told so at least, well, before. I mean— At my previous appointments,” I replied, peeking at his face for a mere moment as I stumbled on my own words.

He caught my eyes instantly. “Tell me, what do you do for a living?”

But I quickly turned them away again. “I’m a sculptor.”

“How do you express your feelings?”

“Through my sculptures, naturally.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, rolling the pen in between his fingers. “You flinched, what’s on your mind?”

I looked up at him again and was met with a warm smile comforting me. I couldn’t handle it, turning to a nearby window, catching the last beaming rays of sun before they hid in the dark clouds.

“I feel like so many things are wrong with me. I just can’t grasp the reason, but I don’t feel okay,” I managed to open up after sometime, rubbing out those tensed muscles of my thighs in the process. “I feel…”

“Then how do you feel?” he pressed me, but gently, almost reassuringly.

“Like I’m in a cage. I can’t move. I can only watch people live the life I aspire to experience, but I can’t move forward…” Words were stuck in my throat and I could no longer say anything else on the topic.

“How would you define that life you aspire to experience?” he asked carefully, tempting me to talk again, placing the pen beside his keyboard.

My head tilted from one side to the other. “I guess the one where I’m able to talk to others freely. Where I’d have friends, a… Lover. A family. Where I’d live a life without that… Nervousness. I just— I want to be free.”

“And now how would you describe your current life?”

“Stable, consistent, tame. Nothing that I could complain about really, but…” I stated, darting my eyes at his intertwined hands on the desk’s surface. “I have nobody. I want to live a fulfilling life, but I just don’t know how to.”

“Then we’ll try to solve your problem. One step at a time, you’ll see,” he cooed.

His words were so calming; my gaze lingered on him longer than anticipated.

His eyes captivated me, drew me in somehow, but also scared me. It looked like he genuinely believed his own words, but the darkness within them made me feel uneasy. Something about him felt unnatural. I really couldn’t tell what was on his mind; I couldn’t read his emotions through those eyes. Maybe because of the deep brown irises, the narrow pupils? I wasn’t sure, but I was curious to say the least.

He inclined his head to the side, grinning widely. “There you are, hello. You’re finally looking at me.”

I could only smile along; my psychiatrist was glad to finally achieve his goal of maintaining eye contact. His uplifted tone didn’t make me feel bad at all.

Still, he was so concentrated, so attentive. “Is there anything else concerning you?”

“Yes, there’s more to it,” I agreed.

“I’m listening.”

I couldn’t stop my leg from bouncing.

“Well, because of my condition, I experience severe panic attacks. Any social interaction triggers me and I just don’t know how to deal with it anymore… I take the pills, of course, but it doesn’t always help me. Even now— I’m trying my best, I-I really am.”

“Can you specify the situations that trigger you?”

I tried to think, but my mind was blank, and my chest tightened at the amount of concentration I accumulated for the task. Even thinking about it made me nervous.

I suddenly felt like I was about to have a heart attack, like I was about to die.

The walls were slowly clasping around me, his bland paintings all of the sudden were overfilled with eyes staring down at me like they were real, absorbing me. I started to panic while they swallowed me; I couldn’t control the terror that overtook me.

“And how do you imagine helping yourself?”

I supported my head with my palm, rubbing the tension in my forehead. “Well… I can’t…”

Only now I see it clearly: there wasn’t an ounce of concern for my well-being in my psychiatrist’s face. He watched me, I know that he noticed it, but my upcoming panic attack didn’t interest him. If I can recall the expression that I have in mind: my psychiatrist seemed to be intrigued by my suffering.

“Are you prepared to do anything to improve your wellbeing?”

He only watched me.

“Yes, yes of course—” I answered weakly, silently gasping for air. My body was trembling.

I tried to grab the bottle of water that I had placed in my bag again, but I couldn’t grasp it. I really thought that I’d die from the amount of adrenaline that suffocated me, the overwhelming emotions pouring out of me.

I had a hard time recognising my surroundings.

All I wanted was to hide and curl up in a ball. To do anything that could make me relax at least for a bit.

Luckily, I grasped the box of anxiety suppressants and pulled it out, but my fingers were shivering so badly that I couldn’t open it.

After some time, I saw my psychiatrist kneeling by my side with a cup of water in his hand. He took the box from my hand, popping out a pill.

I gulped it down immediately, hoping that it would ease my anxiety.

“Breathe deeply. Inhale and exhale.” His voice guided me while I sat with my eyes closed.

I remember how I followed his deep breathing, how our breaths intertwined at that very moment.

He smelled like coffee. Very strong coffee. His cologne too with hints of tobacco and wood.

“I see you,” he repeated. “I see you.”

I didn’t know what he meant back then.

But I was bound to him from that moment on, not even recognising that something so compassionate, helpful could become so destructive.

I don’t remember how long we waited, maybe for fifteen minutes or more, or less, but finally—the effect settled in and I could breathe properly. When I opened my eyes, I was greeted by those intense dark browns staring at me.

He was my doctor and I was his patient.

“Are you feeling better now?” he asked softly.

My jaw trembled uncontrollably; if I tried opening my mouth, my teeth probably would’ve shattered, so I decided better not to speak.

Before I could’ve comprehended what was happening, I felt his hand gently caressing mine. Without my consent, without my permission, without me knowing. Naturally, it should’ve disturbed me, but at that time his touch was soothing, soft, and comforting. It felt right. I wonder, was it because of his warmth, or the way his thumbs massaged the skin of the back of my hands, how they knowingly pressed down on my blood vessels, or how they pushed the tiny bones, my knuckles? Maybe it was his gaze also, though it made me shiver.

Something truly dark hid within them.

I felt both hot and cold, sweat dribbled down my forehead.

“We will find a way to help you. Trust me, we will, but I think this should be it for today, I don’t want to cause you more suffering than needed. Now rest, you’ve done enough, but we’ll have much work to do.”

If only I knew what I had gotten myself into, I would’ve left and never come back. But there was no way I could’ve known.

He was too charming, too caring and professional, wiping the sweat out of my view with a napkin.

“I can fix you.”

And there’s nothing I can do now, absolutely nothing, because I love him.

I just pray; pray and hope that if it was truly meant to be, then it had to happen.

Because that thought alone is the only thing keeping me sane.

Credits for the dividers:

1 - @/mieluno

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The day after the fair, you let Poe sleep in while you did your morning chores and took care of the animals. You decided to clean up and do some bills and business inside the house. When you made your way back downstairs, Poe was cooking breakfast. Naturally, Cheddar was circling his legs lovingly. Or annoyingly, depending on one’s point of view.

Poe had made quite the mess already, but he looked up at you and grinned, so proud of himself.

“I’m making cakes. Um…pan-cakes? It’s under the breakfast tab of your favorite cookbook. I can't believe how much actual paper you have in these books. No holopads or anything but real paper. It's incredible. Are pancakes okay?”

Folding your arms over your chest, you couldn’t help but laugh. “There’s flour everywhere. It’s even in your hair." You nodded down at the apron he was wearing. “Guess your clothes will stay clean though.”

“Sorry,” he shrugged. “I tried. I think I burned a few so I opened the back door to air it out. That’s when Cheddar came in. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” you laughed, scooping up your little barn cat for a quick snuggle.

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After a long day of farm work and supper, you offered to cut Poe's hair.

"Okay, just lean back," you instructed, helping him ease his head back into the kitchen sink as he rested in a chair. You had draped a towel around his shoulders to protect his shirt.

He stared up at the ceiling as you began to spray water through his thick curls.

"Too hot? Too cold?"

"No, it's good." His eyes flickered over to yours, holding your gaze for a moment until you smiled sweetly and continued raking your fingers through his hair, getting it wet.

A low sound of approval rumbled in his chest without him realizing it.

"You okay?" You softly asked, hoping you hadn't pulled his hair too hard.

"Mmm...yeah. That feels good actually." You watched as his throat bobbed, his eyes drifting closed.

"The water?" You innocently questioned, squeezing out a glob of shampoo and working your fingers over his scalp.

"No. Your hands."

"Oh..." Grateful that his eyes were closed and not studying you, you went to work on massaging his scalp, gently raking your nails soothingly all over. "It's good for you to relax for once."

Then he did look at you with a smirk. "Don't start."

"I know, you like to stay busy, I know." Turning the water back on, you began rinsing out the shampoo. "It's just nice to see you taking it easy for a few minutes...letting me take care of you a little bit. You do so much."

His head turned in your grasp, causing your fingers to catch on a tangle. The slight tug made him groan, but he swallowed it down. "Are you serious? Take care of me a little bit?" He sighed, but there was no frustration in it. "Trix, you saved my life. You take care of me all the time, every day."

Your heart flamed in your chest, but you reminded yourself - it wasn't anything to indulge in. You had to let Poe focus on getting home. You couldn't have him for yourself. It was selfish. "You take care of me too, you know," you softly returned, finger-combing his wet hair before lifting the towel from his neck to towel dry it a bit.

He sat up straight in the chair which put him about level with your chest. His eyes traced the smooth column of your throat, noticing how your breaths grew more shallow as his breath brushed your collarbone.

"There," you whispered, kneeling down to his level, the gentle smile returning to your face. "All clean. How much do you want me to cut?"

He blinked at you, distracted, his eyes flickering momentarily down to your mouth. He dragged his gaze back to yours with effort. "Uhm, I don't know. Should you just cut it short, to make it easier?"

"Not too short," you tutted, reaching for a comb and standing back to your full height, if only to get away from his penetrating eyes for a second. "Not with curls like this."

He beamed at that, sitting up a little straighter. "You like curls?"

"I like these." You twirled your finger in the longest one before watching it spring back into place.

"You decide then."

So you did. You took your time, carefully thinning out and shortening Poe's wild mane, loving every second of it. He asked if you'd cut hair before. You admitted you'd only cut your father's hair for years, and your farm hand Chester's a few times. Neither one of them had thick curls.

Poe's eyes would drift closed whenever you would push his hair this way or that, finger comb it into position to trim the next piece. He looked so satisfied like this, reminding you of Cheddar rubbing against your leg.

Maybe he was missing touching someone. Someone back home.

"Who cuts your hair normally?" You asked, checking for extra tags and wrapping things up.

"We have machines that do it, but this is way better." He grinned at you.

"You're not used to someone playing with your hair?" You had meant to tease him, but it came out rather blunt and kind of nosy.

His eyebrows shifted curiously as he watched you bashfully avert your eyes.

"Uh, not in a while really. A long while."

You busied yourself, cleaning up the haircutting supplies, while Poe asked how he could help. He ended up sweeping up his hair off the floor and before long, the two of you sat down to watch TV on the couch.

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All of Poe's nonstop farm work must have finally caught up to him. Either that, or he was so soothed by his haircut, that he fell asleep on your shoulder halfway through the first television program.

You hated to disturb him, and honestly, you relished having him close, at least while he was unaware of it, so you stayed still until the next show came on.

Eventually, your fingers found his dried, fuzzy waves and gently began to twirl through them, faintly scratching at his scalp. He stirred for a moment, nuzzling into your neck before going still again.

This was such a bad idea on your part, but you couldn't help yourself. Making him feel good was like an addictive drug.

Before long, your head rested against his crown of soft brown hair and you found yourself sleeping right along with him.

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You didn't wake up until it was time for chores. Dawn peeked over the horizon as a rooster crowed. You found yourself lying on your couch downstairs, an old quilt made by your great-aunt tucked securely around your body.

Mortified at the thought of falling asleep with Poe and him putting you in this position, you practically leapt up, glancing around for him.

When you didn't see him, you darted upstairs, bypassing his bedroom to freshen up in the restroom and quickly change out of yesterday's clothes.

He wasn't in his room, and he wasn't attempting to make a mess of your kitchen, so he must be outside.

You found him brushing Annabelle, your gentler, blonder, slightly bigger horse. He was talking to her softly and she was eating it up. That sweet girl loved Poe from day one.

"Can't give you too many treats, can I, sweetheart?" You heard him murmur softly. "You're supposed to wait until I'm done brushing, aren't you?"

Then a beat.

"Don't look at me that way, girl. You're gonna get me in trouble with your mom. I'm almost done."

As tempting as it was to linger and listen to Poe flirting with your horse, you stepped into view, clearing your throat.

"See? Busted," Poe said to Annabelle, flashing you a grin. "She's trying to sweet talk me out of extra treats."

You folded your arms over your chest. "Mm-hmm, and how many did you already give her?"

His eyes shifted back and forth between you and the horse guiltily. "Two?"

You walked over and patted Annabelle's nose. "Good work, sweet girl. He's a pushover."

You picked up a second brush and walked past him, toward your chestnut Arzola.

"It's okay, I already brushed her," he informed, stopping you with a hand on your wrist.

Your mouth fell open. "You brushed Arzola. By yourself? She let you?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah. She loves me."

Reaching out to pet your feisty girl, you chuckled. "He got you too, huh? You girls are hopeless." You turned back to Poe. "Thank you for taking care of them. Did you get any sleep last night?"

Oh he did. One of the most peaceful nights he'd slept in ages. He woke up, half on top of you as you leaned heavily against the arm of the couch, his face pressed against the soft skin of your neck, arms wound around your torso. You were holding him too.

As much as it would have felt good to lay you all the way down and pull you closer, he didn't want to startle you. So he carefully untangled himself, checked the time, freshened up and began seeing to the morning chores as a thank you for his haircut.

"Yeah, I slept for a while. Thought I'd help you out this morning," he finally answered, licking his lips and shaking those thoughts out of his head.

You asked what he'd gotten to so far, and that's when he revealed he'd already taken care of everything except breakfast. You reminded him he didn't have to do all that, especially not as a thank you, but he just smiled and said he loved it.

"You wanna go for a ride, don't you?"

He nodded. "I was hoping you would say that."

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After racing across your fields in the early morning sun, you and Poe decided to make breakfast. It felt good to have a morning where your chores were already done. And sharing a good meal with a handsome man didn't hurt much either.

"I should probably confess something," he said cryptically, swirling his last bite of pancake through syrup. "I haven't actually slept too much lately. That's why I fell asleep on you so early last night. Sorry about that."

You eyed him curiously. "It's okay. Why aren't you sleeping?"

He swallowed down his last bite, considering his words. "Sometimes, I'm out there with my ship, in your old empty building where we stashed it. I've been fixing my droid."

You nodded as he continued.

"I've been working on my ship a little bit too. I need some bigger equipment. Tools and things." He eyed you carefully. "I was wondering if you could help me get some things. Maybe...maybe if someone thought they were for the farm, they wouldn't notice you needing them. I don't want to get you in any trouble."

"I know that," you softly returned.

"Once my droid is up and running, she can help me work on the ship, or at least restore communication."

You swallowed a heavy lump in your throat. "That's good, Poe. It's a good idea. I'm sure I can help you out with the equipment you need. The best Iowa has, anyway."

"Thank you." He reached for your hand and gently squeezed. "I wanted to tell you before there's a droid whizzing around here. Didn't want her to scare you."

You held onto his hand longer than you intended, toying with his fingers tenderly. "Does your droid...talk?"

Poe smiled, his eyes flickering down to your joined hands and then back up to your gaze. "She speaks binary. It's...like a machine language. Sort of. I understand her, but I don't think you will. Unless you speak binary?"

"No," you laughed.

"She'll understand you though, mostly," he went on. "She can probably help around here too." Then he wistfully sighed. "I just hope she can help me figure out how I got here."

Your thumb rubbed the back of his hand soothingly. "I hope that too, Poe, I really do. And I want to help you, if I can. If there's anything I can do."

He wanted to ask for your help. He wanted to sleep as soundly and safely as he'd slept last night, against your body. One of the main reasons he worked on his ship at night was because of the dreams. Vivid, haunting dreams of his friends screaming, dying, in the vastness of space, or their minds pulled apart the way his mind had been violated by the dark side of the Force.

He wondered if you had a tonic to help him sleep more deeply. At least that's what he wondered until you drove his nightmares away last night with your mere presence. It's why he awoke so invigorated and decided to complete the day's chores for you.

If only he could sleep that soundly again, feeling that safe. If only he didn't have to see his friends in torment when he closed his eyes, feeling like he'd abandoned them.

If only he could have met you in his galaxy. But as surely as he felt he must return to his own life, to the war, he was grateful you were not a part of it. Earth seemed, at least for now, the safer option for you.

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