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“So, first of all,” I say, flopping onto the couch like it personally owes me emotional backpay, “I know I skipped a session. And yes, I’m aware avoidance is not a strategy.”

Dr. Lisa gives me the therapist face. The warm, nonjudgmental one that says continue, sinner .

She looks, as always, like she’s just returned from a wellness retreat where the robes are silk and the drama is subtle.

Her silver-streaked hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders, framing a face that has clearly made a pact with time.

High cheekbones, olive skin that glows without highlighter, and eyes the color of espresso behind stylish glasses—sharp, unblinking, and way too good at calling bullshit.

“I’m glad you made it in today,” she says, her voice low and smooth like she practices on NPR narrations. “What feels important to bring into the room?”

That’s classic Lisa. She doesn’t push. She invites. And damn it, I always RSVP eventually.

I sigh. “Okay, so... There’s this man I want to talk about. Let’s call him Adrian. I totally hate him. He’s like if a TED Talk and a cologne ad had a baby, and that baby was raised exclusively on Joe Rogan clips.”

She nods. “And what’s your relationship to him?”

“Public nemesis,” I say. “I did a reaction video to one of his clips—well, technically a takedown, but it was fair—and then we ended up on a panel together. And now the internet is betting on whether we hook up before the end of the year. ”

“I see,” she says gently.

“And also,” I add, “he’s been showing up in my dreams. Uninvited. Repeatedly. Doing things to me that are... not appropriate for a woman who once called him a human equivalent of a gym selfie.”

Lisa pauses. “How long has that been happening?”

“Three dreams in the past week,” I say. I lean forward, voice low and panicked. “He’s winning in my subconscious, Lisa. This is psychological warfare.”

Dr. Lisa adjusts her glasses. She has the kind of calm that makes you want to throw a chair just to get a reaction.

“Tell me more.”

I hesitate. Then blurt, “Like, today he showed up wearing a tank top that said ‘I WIN’.”

“And?”

“...and nothing else!”

Dr. Lisa pauses. “Okay. So these dreams are... sexual in nature?”

“Offensively so,” I say.

She tilts her head. “And how do you feel about that?”

“Betrayed,” I snap. “My brain is supposed to be on my team. And now my own subconscious violates me. I mean, he literally carried me onto a countertop and—”

I cut myself off, waving my hands. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. It was a dream. It’s not real. My brain is just... sorting files.”

Lisa gives me a look that says you named the folder ‘Strategic Initiatives: Mount Him’.

She tries not to smile. I see it. Treasonous dimple. “Emily, it’s normal to have erotic dreams, especially involving figures of tension or unresolved emotion.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t unresolved emotion. This is psychic warfare.”

I lean forward, whispering like the walls have ears. “He’s infiltrating. Like, psychologically. Maybe even spiritually. And I need tools, Lisa. Shields. Rituals. Maybe salt circles? Do those work in REM?”

She folds her hands. “You’re describing classic projection mixed with suppressed arousal.”

“I’m describing a hostile takeover,” I correct. “Do you know what he said in this dream? He said ‘I don’t need consent. I need surrender.’ While tearing up my blouse.”

Silence.

Then she says gently, “And how did you respond in the dream?”

“I said, ‘This is unethical,’” I mutter. “But then I took my panties off. So.”

She nods like this is standard Tuesday material.

I groan. “I can’t even hate-sleep in peace.”

Dr. Lisa scribbles something in her notebook.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s say hypothetically I want to reprogram my dreams. Like Inception , but feminist. Do we do that with affirmations? Aversion therapy? Do I record a loop of Gloria Steinem quotes and play it overnight?”

Lisa raises an eyebrow. “Why do you think Adrian’s showing up now? ”

“Because I’m being emotionally targeted by his pheromones and algorithm,” I mutter. “Or maybe because my libido is a traitor.”

Lisa leans back, thoughtful. “Maybe the dream isn’t about him. Maybe it’s about what he represents.”

“Oh, great. Now he’s a metaphor.”

“Emily—what if this isn’t sabotage? What if it’s your psyche exploring vulnerability through someone you intellectually distrust?”

I blink.

“Wait. Are you shipping me with my nemesis too?”

She smiles. “I’m just noticing where your imagination is already going.”

I sigh and stare at the ceiling. “I swear to God, if he ever finds out about these dreams, I’ll have to legally change careers.”

Lisa laughs softly. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Good,” I say. “Because next session, we’re doing hypnosis. And I want Adrian erased like a bad tattoo.”

“Or,” she says, “you could explore what makes him stick.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you on his payroll?”

She just smiles again.

I groan. “Fine. I’ll journal. But if I start sleep-texting him, it will be your sin, too.”

***

The first thing I become aware of is not the sun, or the time, or the desperate need for caffeine.

It’s the fact that I’m... smiling.

Like, post-kiss, post-climax, post-sin smiling .

My eyes snap open.

“No,” I croak to no one. “No, no, no. Not again.”

But it was. Again.

Adrian was there.

With his hands. And that voice. And that stupid, smug smile.

I groan and reach blindly for my phone, still half-asleep and 100% too horny for my own principles. I open the voice recorder app for dream journaling like Dr. Lisa suggested and hit record before I can overthink it.

Tuesday, 8:15am

“Okay. Dream log. He was there again.

Adrian. Just—there. No warning. No shirt. No shame.

He looked at me like he already knew what he was about to do to me.

And he did. God, he did.

I can’t even say half of it out loud.”

I blink. Still half-under covers. My body warm and wet in all the wrong places.

Shouldn’t I go into full detail? Get it out of my system?

Okay. Fine.

I’ll record the rest.

Just... for me.

I should delete this.

I won’t.

But I should.