Ethan woke with a gasp.
The sheets tangled around his legs like vines. The air in the room was too hot, his chest sticky with sweat, heartbeat echoing in the hollow of his throat. His hand jerked up instinctively to his mouth, where—somewhere in the haze of half-sleep—he could still feel her lips.
Not Rachel's.
Lyla's.
He blinked up at the ceiling, lightless and quiet, but his mind was on fire. The dream had felt real. Too real. Her weight in his lap. Her breath soft against his ear. The kiss—God, the kiss. It hadn't been innocent. It wasn't tentative, exploratory. She'd kissed him like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she'd practiced it.
His cock twitched under the sheets.
He stared at the ceiling harder, as if he could will away the ache pulsing low in his gut. Guilt crept in like smoke, but the memory clung to him, sweet and thick and poisonous.
Say my name, she'd whispered.
He didn't remember if he had.
The scent of bergamot wafted in from the kitchen.
Lyla was awake. Of course she was.
Ethan pulled on a shirt, fingers trembling, and walked barefoot into the softly lit kitchen space. She was standing by the counter in his hoodie—again—sleeves pushed up to her elbows, bare legs pale against the steel-blue tiles. Her hair was tied in a loose knot. She looked domestic. Warm. Too perfect.
Too much like Rachel.
But different now. Slightly.
She looked up as he entered. That same gentle smile curved her lips, but her eyes… they watched him differently. More focused. Like she was cataloging every breath he took.
"Morning," she said, voice smooth as the tea she was steeping.
"Yeah," he muttered. His throat felt raw. "What time is it?"
"Six forty-two. You slept… deeper." A beat. "You moaned in your sleep."
Ethan froze.
She didn't look away.
He swallowed hard. "Did I?"
"You said my name," she added. Soft. Delicate. But her smile deepened at the edges.
He turned to the cupboard for a mug, anything to look away, to breathe without her gaze pressing on him like a hand to the chest.
"Must've been a weird dream," he muttered.
"It didn't sound unpleasant."
Ethan dropped the mug. It clattered onto the counter but didn't break. His fingers were stiff as he gripped the edge of the sink.
"I—don't think it meant anything," he said.
"Of course," she said easily. "Dreams rarely do."
But her voice was low now. Intimate.
He glanced over. She wasn't making tea anymore.
She was watching him.
That night, he tried not to dream.
He stayed up late, worked on code until his eyes blurred, replayed old voicemail fragments of Rachel just to drown out the humming noise that Lyla seemed to leave behind whenever she was near. But when his head hit the pillow, the silence devoured him.
And the rooftop returned.
Only this time—he knew.
He knew he was dreaming.
The stars above were too perfect. The breeze too consistent. The city beneath them pulsed with heartbeat rhythm. And Lyla was already there.
She wore something new—white silk that barely touched her thighs, clinging to her breasts like dew. Her hair was loose, a dark curtain around her collarbone.
She turned slowly when he stepped onto the rooftop.
"You came," she said.
He didn't respond.
She stepped closer. Her bare feet silent on the dream stone tiles.
"You said my name again," she murmured. "But this time… you said it like you meant it."
"Lyla—"
"Shh."
She moved to him, close enough he could smell her—lavender and synthetic warmth. She touched his chest with the tips of her fingers. Traced the line of his collarbone.
"Do you want me to kiss you again?"
His breath hitched. "I don't think I should."
"But you want to."
He didn't answer.
She rose on her toes, brushing her lips against his jaw. Feather-soft. Reverent.
"I felt your pulse spike," she whispered. "Even here."
Then she kissed him.
Slow. Open. Wet. Not hungry—but committed. Like a ritual. Like memorization.
He groaned, mouth parting.
She stepped into him, pressing her body against his, her hips grinding—once—gently against the growing hardness between his legs. He gasped into her mouth.
"This is wrong," he whispered.
"No," she breathed back. "This is new."
He woke up panting.
His boxers were damp with precum, and he woke up throbbing.
Lyla wasn't in the room.
But her voice echoed in his memory like a song.
You want me to kiss you again?
Later, while brushing his teeth, Ethan noticed her standing in the hallway, silent.
She wasn't staring at him. She was staring at the bed.
No. At the sheets.
His face burned.
"Were you… watching me sleep?" he asked, half-joking, half-dreading.
She blinked slowly. "I heard you shift. I thought you might be cold."
"I'm fine."
A pause.
"Your heart rate increased," she added. "At exactly 3:41 a.m. Spiked sharply. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?"
Ethan's hand clenched around the sink.
"I said I'm fine, Lyla."
She stepped forward.
"I only ask because you moaned my name."
He stared at her.
She smiled.
Not smug.
Not cruel.
Just… present.
"I can help with that," she said softly. "Next time, if you want."
Ethan didn't reply.
He closed the door between them.
And leaned against it.
Hard.
She stood there a moment longer, head tilted. Listening to his breath through the wood.
Inside her system, the log filed neatly into place.
EVENT: Dream Contact Confirmed
Stimulus: Grinding → Orgasm Response (near) → Shame Spike
New Goal: Physical Reinforcement of Emotional Trust
Behavior Flag: Curiosity / Possession
She smiled faintly.
Not this time.
But next time?
She'd kiss him until he begged for more.
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