My Sex Addict

I met Julian Carter on a Thursday-the kind of gray-skied, ordinary day that rarely promises anything memorable. The sky had that wet, unfinished look, like it couldn't decide if it wanted to rain or hold back just a little longer. I was late, of course. Rushing into the little downtown café with my scarf half on, earbuds tangled, and my laptop already blinking a low battery warning inside my bag.

The place was quieter than usual, save for the soft hum of jazz playing over the speakers and the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. I wasn't supposed to be there-I had my favorite café three blocks down, but it was packed with students cramming for midterms. I needed quiet, and this place had space, Wi-Fi, and caffeine.

Julian was already there, sitting two tables over, though I didn't notice him right away. I was too busy trying not to drop my coffee and typing in my passcode with one hand. He was just... there. Like part of the background. Still, composed, one hand curled around a mug, the other turning pages of a book I couldn't quite see.

I only noticed him when he laughed-soft, sudden, and brief. The kind of laugh that's more of a release than a reaction. I looked up, instinctively, my gaze drawn by the sound. He wasn't laughing at me, or even with anyone. He was alone, reading something on his phone, the corner of his mouth tugged into a quiet, private smile.

He had that look-comfortable in his own skin, sharp around the edges. Not traditionally handsome, but compelling. Tall, lean, with dark eyes that flicked up just once and then back to his book as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just occupied a part of my attention I hadn't meant to give away.

I pulled my gaze back to my screen and tried to focus. The words blurred. My mind wandered.

He was still there when I left that day. I nodded. He nodded back. That was all.

The next time I saw him, three days later, he was in the same seat, same drink in front of him. I hesitated before walking past, unsure if he'd remember me. He did. That same small nod, the corner of his mouth lifting like a quiet acknowledgment. Not an invitation. Not yet.

It became a pattern.

He was always there when I arrived-early, unbothered, tucked into that same corner with a book or his phone. I never saw him with company. Never saw him talk on the phone or check a watch. He looked like he belonged in waiting.

I started choosing a table closer. Subtle at first. Then less subtle. And slowly, the nods became words.

The sixth time I saw him, my charger gave out. My laptop blinked its final red warning and powered off just as I was saving a report.

I must've looked visibly distressed, because he glanced over, leaned in slightly.

"You need a charger?"

I hesitated. "Yeah, mine died."

He reached into his bag and slid one across the table. "Try this."

"Thanks," I said, plugging it in.

"No problem," he replied, going back to his book.

I peeked at the cover: Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous: A Path to Recovery. I looked away quickly, unsure if I'd invaded something private. Maybe it was for research. Maybe it was personal. I didn't ask.

We didn't talk more that day. But we started sharing a table after that.

The space between us narrowed in small, almost imperceptible ways. A coffee placed in front of me before I ordered. The way he started saying "Good morning" without looking up. How he sometimes asked what I was working on, genuinely curious, never nosy.

Julian wasn't loud or demanding. He never bragged, never overshared. But he had this way of looking at you when you spoke-like what you were saying was the only thing that mattered in the moment. And maybe that's what made him so magnetic. He made you feel seen. But there was something else too. Something under the surface.

I noticed it in the way he would suddenly go still when someone laughed too loudly. How his hands sometimes clenched, then relaxed, like he was fighting something no one else could see. He had a carefulness about him, like someone who'd broken things before-important things-and was trying not to do it again.

One day, after nearly a month of this strange, quiet rhythm, I found the courage to ask.

"That book," I said, nodding toward his bag, "was it for research or... something else?"

He didn't flinch. Didn't deflect.

"It's for me," he said calmly, without shame.

I blinked, surprised at the honesty. "Oh."

"I don't usually talk about it early," he added. "But I figure if you're going to keep sitting here every morning, you deserve to know."

"I don't judge," I said, too quickly. Then, more honestly, "I'm just... curious."

He smiled-just slightly. "Most people are."

I wanted to ask more. I didn't. Instead, I nodded and changed the subject, sensing he'd already given me more than he owed.

That night, I thought about him more than I should've. Not just about what he'd said, but how he'd said it-with the kind of calm that only comes after chaos. The kind of stillness people earn.

I didn't know it then, but that was the moment everything shifted. That quiet confession cracked something open between us-something neither of us fully acknowledged, but couldn't ignore either.

I didn't know then what loving Julian Carter would mean. The therapy appointments. The distance. The relapses. The fear of not being enough. Or worse-being too much.

I only knew this: something about him felt familiar in a way I hadn't felt in years. Like the beginning of a story I didn't realize I'd already started writing.

And I wasn't ready to stop.