In dreams

You pick up your phone again, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The Vasquez appointment is Tuesday at three. Millbrook is a twenty-minute drive. The bus would mean leaving at noon and praying it shows up on time.

Just ask. She literally offered. Twice.

You type: "Hey—random question. Would you be able to give me a ride on Tuesday afternoon? I have an appointment in Millbrook at 3pm. Totally fine if you can't, I can figure something out."

Send. You set the phone face-down on your chest and stare at the ceiling, the mansion's ambient hum filling the silence. The reply comes faster than expected.

Janelle: "yes absolutely!! what time do you need to leave?"

You: "Probably 2:30? It's a doctor's office on Oak Street."

Janelle: "got u. i'll be there at 2:25. no charge but i accept coffee as payment ☕"

You: "Deal. Thank you, seriously."

Janelle: "of course!! anything you need riley "

That was easy. Why did I think it would be hard?

You haul yourself off the sofa, the suede skirt creased where your thighs pressed against the leather. The block heels sit by the door where you kicked them off. You pad upstairs in bare feet, the cool wood of the staircase smooth beneath your soles.

In Chloe's bedroom—your bedroom now, you suppose—HAVEN dims the lights to a soft amber as you enter. "Good evening, Miss Chloe. Would you like me to prepare a sleep protocol?"

"Yes, please."

The room shifts: overhead lights fading, bedside lamps warming to a honey glow, the climate system adjusting to a cooler temperature. You peel off the cardigan, the tank top, the suede skirt—each garment dropping into the hamper where LUXE's laundry system will claim them by morning. The gold necklaces come off next, then the earrings, each piece placed on the vanity with care.

You stand in the nude microfiber briefs and nothing else, catching your reflection in the vanity mirror. The breast forms sit high on your chest, their silicone weight familiar now. Your hair is tangled from the wind and the bike ride. Your face still holds the berry lip and the winged liner from this morning's LUXE session.

You look like a woman getting ready for bed. Because you are.

You remove the forms carefully—peeling the adhesive tabs away from your skin with a slight sting—and set them in their case. You wash your face at the sink, watching the makeup dissolve under warm water and cleanser, revealing the bare skin beneath. Then you crawl into the silk sheets wearing nothing but the briefs, the fabric cool and impossibly smooth against your legs.

Sleep comes quickly. The day's events layer and dissolve—Priya's mood boards, Janelle's laugh, the wind in your hair on the Bianchi, Theron's hands on the bike chain.

The dream starts gently. You're in the garden, the one behind the estate, but the hedges have grown wild and fragrant. Jasmine. Night-blooming jasmine. You're wearing something thin and white—a slip, maybe, or a nightgown—and the fabric moves against your skin like water.

Theron is there. He's shirtless, his broad chest catching moonlight, and he's looking at you with that steady dark gaze. He doesn't speak. He reaches out and takes your hand, pulling you against him, and you feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric. His hands find your waist, your hips, sliding down to grip the curve of your rear through the silk.

Your breath catches. His mouth finds your neck, stubble scraping the sensitive skin below your ear, and you arch into him. One hand slides between your bodies, fingers tracing down your stomach, lower, pressing against you through the fabric. You're wet—achingly, desperately wet—and his fingers find the shape of you, rubbing slow circles that make your knees buckle.

"There," he murmurs against your throat, and his voice is exactly how you imagined it—low, rough, certain.

He lifts you onto the stone ledge of the garden fountain, pushing the slip up around your hips. His hands spread your thighs apart and he kneels between them, mouth descending. The first touch of his tongue is electric—hot and wet and deliberate, parting you, tasting you. Your fingers thread through his dark hair, pulling him closer, and he responds by pressing deeper, his tongue flat and slow against your clit, then circling, then sucking gently.

You come with his name on your lips, hips bucking against his mouth, and the dream fractures into sensation—pure, blinding, whole-body.

You wake at two-fourteen AM, sheets tangled around your legs, heart hammering, skin flushed and damp. The room is dark. Your hand is between your thighs, pressed against the briefs, and you're still trembling from the edge of orgasm.

Jesus.

You lie there in the darkness, breathing hard, the phantom sensation of his mouth still echoing through your body.