Page 34

“So,” Dr. Lisa says, clicking her pen like it’s a loaded weapon, “how’s the dream journaling going?”

I wince. Not the correct response, and we both know it.

“I sent you the folder like you asked. Labeled, dated, ethically unhinged.”

“About that,” she says gently, “I think there may have been a mix-up. The files I received sounded more like... rough podcast drafts?”

I blink. “What?”

“Very polished. You narrating ideas. No dreams that I could identify—unless your subconscious involves mid-roll ad breaks.”

Oh no. And yes, it explains everything.

“Wrong folder,” I mumble. “Wrong people. I sent two hours of voice-memo sex dreams to Jessie. And it looks like she shared them with Adrian.”

She pauses. “Adrian. The man from your dreams?”

“Yeah. But now the dreams are real. As of yesterday.”

“Ah.”

That’s it. Ah.

The professional-grade way to say: you catastrophically horny idiot .

“Anyway,” I sigh. “You don’t have them. Let’s move on.”

“If you’re ready.”

I’m not. Not even close.

But she gives me that look—the one that always says you don’t have to say it, but you should .

“He showed up at my apartment,” I say.

Her pen moves.

“With tea,” I add. “Cambodian blue lotus. Said it helps with lucid dreaming.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“Right?” I laugh. “It was so calculated I wanted to throw the bag at him. But also I wanted to boil it. And drink it. And then maybe climb him like a tree.”

“So what happened?”

I hesitate.

“We skipped the tea. But the rest went as planned.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Disoriented,” I say. “Like I opened a door I can’t shut without slamming part of myself in it.”

She waits.

“It wasn’t just sex,” I say. “I mean, it was sex—really, really unfairly good sex—but... it felt like he knew me. Not just my body. My patterns. My tells. Like he wasn’t reacting, he was reading me. And not with some pickup-artist formula, either. With intention.”

“How did he act afterward?”

“Controlled. A little distant. But not like he didn’t care. More like—like he was trying really hard not to.”

I sit back. Let my head fall against the cushion.

“You know what’s worst?” I mutter. “I think he already knew I had feelings. Before I did. He looked at me like it was all confirmed. Like he’d been waiting for me to figure it out.”

“And have you?”

I don’t answer right away.

Because the answer is yes .

Yes, I have feelings.

Yes, I want him.

Yes, it scares the hell out of me.

And yes—I have no idea what he wants now.

“I think I want to know what he’s going to do next,” I say finally.

Dr. Lisa smiles—just barely.

“So you’re not done.”

“No,” I say. “But I really wish I were.”