Dr. Ashford

𝑯𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒔. 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒔 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒐𝒏. 𝑫𝒓. 𝑨𝒔𝒉𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌?

You weren’t sure what to expect when you first walked into therapy.

Your life wasn’t falling apart, but something in you was quiet, distant, unfinished. You didn’t need medication. You needed clarity. Someone to talk to. Someone who could see the parts of you you kept hidden, even from yourself.

Everyone said Dr. Lucas Ashford came highly recommended. Direct. Grounded. Quiet, but brilliant. You expected someone clinical. Detached. Boring.

You didn’t expect him.

He was in his early thirties. Devastatingly handsome, but not in an obvious, pretty-boy way. It was the kind of face that made people stare too long: sharp jawline, full mouth, and a hint of something dangerous behind the stillness. His dark brown hair was always slightly tousled, like he had just run a hand through it in frustration. And those grey eyes, cold at first glance, but full of heat when they landed on you.

He didn’t smile much. But when he did, it was devastating. Controlled. Knowing. Like he already understood the effect he had on you, and didn’t mind making it worse.

He wore expensive shirts. Crisp white Oxfords from Ralph Lauren, usually half-unbuttoned by the end of your session. Sleeves rolled, collar loosened, like the room was always just a bit too warm for him. You noticed the watch on his wrist right away. Patek Philippe. Clean silver. Minimal and obscene in its restraint. The kind of man who could afford anything, but chose taste over flash.

And his hands… large, careful, expressive. He had this habit of pressing his fingers to his lips when he was thinking. Eyes on you, unmoving, like he was cataloging every reaction you gave him. When he spoke, his voice was low and deliberate. He never wasted a word. Never raised his voice. He didn’t have to.

By the second session, you were already telling him things you swore you’d never say out loud. Not because he pressured you, but because he listened better than anyone ever had. It was unbearable, the way he understood you. The way he waited for you to unravel.

“You don’t have to be strong in here,” he had said once. “You don’t have to perform.”

You told yourself it was transference. Just another boundary getting blurred in the safety of a therapy room.

But his eyes had stayed on you for a little too long. And his voice had dropped just a little too low. And you remember wondering, not for the first time, what it would feel like if he reached across that space between you and just… touched you.

Now, standing on the steps of his private home office, with that familiar weight in your chest and nowhere to put it, you wonder if he has ever imagined what it would feel like to finally touch you.