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There are very few moments in life when I feel genuinely disoriented.

Mildly amused? Regularly.

Profoundly pleased with myself? Hourly.

But this? Sitting at my desk, watching a folder labeled Raw_logs sprout thirteen audio files?

This is new.

Jessie had forwarded it earlier today—said that she hadn’t had time to check it. I expected outtakes. Feminist rambling. Maybe a bonus track where Emily called me a sentient leather jacket or a walking, talking red flag.

So naturally, I clicked.

The first file opened with her voice. Low. Raspy. Not polished for the mic—real.

“Okay. Dream log. He was there again.”

I blinked.

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

My smoothie stalled halfway to my mouth.

I hit pause. Rewound. Played it again...

Oh.

Oh, that was not an outtake.

That was a confession. A series. A library of admissions with my name on them—moaned, muttered, and occasionally growled.

And dear God, they got worse . In the best possible way .

By the fourth clip, I wasn’t smirking anymore. She described things with a kind of reluctant clarity that made it very hard to breathe. Very hard to focus. Very hard, period.

And it wasn’t just the sex. It was the creativity .

I’d helped guys navigate threesomes, dominance games, even the logistics of shower sex in apartments with no water pressure. But Emily Parrish? She dreamed up scenarios that needed a stunt coordinator. Unhinged. Artful. Borderline illegal in Utah. And somehow, I was both the villain and the reward.

It was diabolical. Erotic. I never would’ve guessed she had that in her.

And now? Well. Now it’s all I can think about.

The door creaks open.

I hit pause automatically.

Tyler pokes his head in like we’re roommates. “Yo. Dropping your coffee. Also—random, but I totally bet on you and the Zeta Slayer in the hookup pool. Two-to-one odds. Should’ve been higher.”

I blink. “Oh, right... a betting pool.”

“There’s a Discord. Full fantasy league. Someone made a trailer.”

He grins. “Just saying—you seal the deal this week, I win eighty bucks. No pressure.”

He leaves.

I sit there.

Thirteen files. Over an hour of listening.

I should feel bad. I should close the folder. Email Jessie. Tell her she messed up. Maybe pretend I never opened them.

But I don’t .

I just scroll down to number 13.

The last one.

The timestamp says eleven minutes.

And in that moment, I am not thinking about PR. Or revenge. Or leverage.

I am thinking about her mouth.

And the fact that next time I see her, I won’t be thinking at all.