𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXXVIII

        Henry's pov
The cool tip of a pen being dragged along the skin of my v-line is what wakes me up. When I open my eyes, I see the same girl that haunts my dreams. That haunts me. Haunts my soul. My own dearest nightmare, in the form of a pretty girl with deadly lips. How odd is it, to be haunted by someone who is still alive?

She must be an angel, I'm sure. And this must be hell. Because the image of her tired face propped up on her elbows, inches away from my cock—drawing what seems to be lightning across my hip bone, leading down to my lower abs and right under my tattoo. Yes, this is a nightmare—one made of my darkest, deepest desires. She's close so close to my hardening length and yet the concentration on her face as she merely doodles is what makes me, a man who has felt nothing his whole life, feel everything in this single moment. How wrong the doctors were, to call me sociopathic, unable to feel—because right now? I seem to feel everything so severely that my heart feels heavy, and I find myself having to cradle the damn thing as if it's about to burst.

The movement catches her eye and she snaps her head to me, dropping the pen. Morning, I think she's saying but I can hardly focus when the pen rolls lower and lower and her hand god her hand brushes my skin as she's trying to catch it from rolling even lower and her fingers are close so close to my—

I grasp her wrist before she can pick it up, before her hand brushes against me, before she can start something I know she's too sore to finish. I shut my eyes before they roll back and she notices the effect she has on me, before just how much she can do to me with a single touch, word, look. Before I become another game for her to master and tire of. I needed some dignity, but I fear I've run out of it.  "Sorry," She says, her green eyes gleaming. "I was waiting for you to wake up and, I don't know, I was bored–"

I press my lips against hers to shut her up. It was supposed to be a peck, a little kiss. It wasn't supposed to escalate to her under me, her hands in my hair. But addiction was hereditary, so I wasn't surprised when I took more than I meant to.

She pulls away smiling and rests her head against the pillow as I lay next to her. We're quiet for a moment, for two, until she asks, "What were you dreaming about?"

"You," I admit. "Always you."

She rolls her eyes like she doesn't believe me, and I give her one of my rare smiles—ones I keep hidden just for her. "I don't know," I say, continuing. "People that look like you, at least. People that look like me, too." I look into her green eyes—eyes that no longer show anger, but grief. I look into them and wonder if I should worry this sweet, clever girl with my own stupid frequent dreams. "It's nothing," I say.

She watches me closely, frowning like she knows I'm lying. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." I say, brushing off the topic because I'm sure it's just that. A fantasy, a mere illusion,  to put an insomniac to sleep. Life after life, like a broken record. It's nothing, I'm sure, and yet and yet and yet I have to ask because I can't seem to let the thoughts bleed out of me. "Do you know a Lily?"

She raises her eyebrows, surprised at the sudden question. "I don't think so. Why?" She asks, trying to lighten the mood I'm sure I've dimmed. But I need to know.

"In Birch, they never brought that name up?' I ask.

She shakes her head, in thought.

I frown, about to blame the weird question on my throbbing headache when another thought seems to suffocate me so greatly—"Did they ever talk about the first patient?"

Jane thinks for a moment, as if trying to remember. It's nothing, I tell myself. It's just a fabricated storyline. Fake names, too. I've never heard of a Rose. So what if it's Jane's middle name? So what if Elliot is mine? It doesn't mean anything. Just as I'm on the journey to debunking it all, she speaks. "Patient 001?"