Not-so-sweet dreams

You eat the cold eggs standing at the counter, scrolling through nothing on your phone because you've already handled everything that needed handling. The spinach has gone rubbery and the cheese has congealed into a sad film across the top, but you eat it anyway. Calories are calories. You rinse the plate, load the dishwasher, and wander upstairs.

LUXE is waiting when you enter the closet chamber, its soft glow welcoming. "Good evening, Miss Chloe! Would you like your Sleepwear Look, or shall I prepare something custom for tonight?"

"Sleepwear," you say flatly.

The arms descend. Silk pajama shorts in blush pink, a matching camisole with delicate lace trim at the neckline. The fabric slides over your skin like water—cool, weightless, impossibly soft. LUXE removes your makeup with gentle pads, applies night cream, brushes your hair until it falls loose around your shoulders. You stand still for all of it, passive, letting the machine tend to you like a patient in recovery.

"Sleep well, Miss Chloe! Big day tomorrow!"

You crawl into Chloe's bed—the enormous king-size with its thousand-thread-count sheets and too many pillows—and stare at the ceiling. The house is silent except for HAVEN's ambient breathing. Your phone sits on the nightstand, face-down, Janelle's messages already read and answered. Chloe's voice still echoes in your head: You look like YOU.

You fall asleep faster than expected. The exhaustion of the day—emotional, physical, all of it—pulls you under like a tide.

The dream starts warm. A man you don't recognize—tall, dark-haired, strong jaw, kind eyes the color of whiskey—is kissing you. His hands are on your waist, pulling you close, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of... something. A dress. You're wearing a dress. His mouth moves down your neck and you arch into it, breathless, wanting.

Yes. This. Exactly this.

His hand slides down your hip, reaches between your thighs, and finds—

He stops. Pulls back. His expression shifts from desire to confusion to something worse. Revulsion.

"What the fuck is that?"

You look down. There it is. Your penis, exposed, absurd, wrong. A part of you that doesn't belong anymore, that never belonged, jutting out from beneath the hem of your dress like an accusation.

"You're not really a girl," he says. His voice changes. Deepens. Multiplies.

You're standing in a crowd now. Faces everywhere—strangers, people from town, faces you half-recognize. They're all saying it. Not shouting, exactly. Just stating it, like a fact, like reading a headline.

"Not really a girl."

"Not really a girl."

"Not really a girl."

Janelle's face appears in the crowd. She's not crying this time. She's just looking at you with that same horrified expression from outside The Lantern, and her lips form the words without sound.

You try to speak but your mouth won't open. You try to run but your feet are stuck. The voices get louder, closer, pressing in from all sides until—

You wake up.

Your heart is slamming against your ribs. The sheets are damp with sweat. The bedroom is dark except for the faint blue glow of HAVEN's night-mode lighting along the baseboards. You're sitting upright, gasping, your hands gripping the silk camisole at your chest.

Not really a girl.

You press your palms against your eyes. Your breathing is ragged. The dream is already fragmenting but the feeling remains—a cold knot of shame sitting heavy in your stomach, the phantom sensation of those hands recoiling from your body.

Tomorrow. Three o'clock. Dr. Vasquez.

You lie back down, but you don't sleep again for a long time. When you finally do, it's shallow and restless, punctuated by half-waking moments where you reach for your phone to check the time. 2:14am. 3:47am. 5:22am.

At 6:45am, HAVEN's gentle chime sounds: "Good morning, Miss Chloe. Your morning routine reminder is active. LUXE session recommended within the next thirty minutes to maintain full house system access."

You sit up. Your eyes are gritty. Your head aches. The silk pajamas are twisted around your waist from tossing and turning.

Three o'clock. Dr. Vasquez. I have so much to talk about.