Ch. 6 Is It All A Dream?

I’m not sure when I finally drift off—maybe sometime after midnight. Sleep came in fits, each time breaking apart into tangled knots of memory and worry. I tried reading again, tried meditating.

Eventually I must have passed out, sitting up in Lucy’s guest bed with my hair still damp from a late shower and my phone face down on the side table.

The morning is soft. Light seeps in around the curtain edges, and for a moment I pretend I’m not still unraveling.

I don’t talk much during breakfast. Lucy makes toast and coffee and gently avoids asking questions. I appreciate it. After last night, I’m already back in my head. The more I replay it, the more I feel unsteady—like I’m living in two versions of the same timeline. In one, Jensen left the shop. In the other, he sat in the green settee and looked at me like he could see through the walls I keep up.

I don’t know which version is real.

Later, I find myself wandering. I don’t even plan where I’m going—I just step off the subway three stops early and walk. I wind through the quieter part of downtown, past the place that used to be the old record store, past the statue with the pigeons that always seem to be watching you. I end up at the museum.

It’s not the first place I’d expect to run into anyone, but of course—of course—he’s here.

Jensen.

Real Jensen. I think.

He’s standing in front of an enormous oil painting, one of the old classics they rotate through. Light from the tall windows casts warm, lazy beams across the hardwood floor, and he’s just… there. Calm. Solid. Watching the brushwork like it might whisper back to him.

I should walk away. I should turn and pretend I didn’t see him. But instead, I walk up beside him.

“Didn't take you for the museum type,” I say, my voice somehow steady.

He doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Didn't take you for the type to follow strange men into altered realities, but here we are.”

I laugh under my breath. It’s not a good joke, but it makes my stomach flutter anyway.

“Is this real?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Like… right now. This. Are you really here?”

He turns to me slowly. “I could ask you the same thing.”

That makes me dizzy. I cross my arms and look back at the painting.

“I’ve had a weird couple of days,” I mutter.

Jensen hums in agreement. “Yeah. Same.”

Silence hangs between us, thick but not uncomfortable. The kind that lets you breathe.

“You were in Lucy’s coffee shop yesterday, weren’t you?” I ask.

He hesitates, just for a second too long. “I was.”

“But Lucy says you left.”

“I did.”

“But—”

“I left,” he says, turning to face me fully now. “And then I didn’t.”

I blink up at him. He shrugs like that’s enough of an explanation.

“You’re not crazy, Eloise,” he adds. “But you’re not entirely awake either.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So, I nod. Slowly.

“Do you do this often?” I ask. “The whole… bending space thing? Making replicas of places?”

“I don’t make them,” he says quietly. “They just happen around me. Sometimes. Especially when I’m close to someone who’s—” He stops himself, shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”

I should be scared. Or furious. Or at least skeptical. But instead, I feel grounded. Like I’ve finally stepped into the room I’ve been circling for weeks.

“What happened to me yesterday… the vision, the dream… it was a warning, wasn’t it?”

He looks at me, and there’s something heavy behind his eyes. Sadness, maybe. Regret.

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“About what could’ve been. What almost was. What still might be—if you're not careful.”

I take a slow breath. “That’s helpful.”

“It’s the best I’ve got right now.”

We fall silent again. His shoulder brushes mine, and I don’t pull away.

There’s something charged in the air, but it’s not volatile. It’s warm. Slow. Building.

“Do you always talk like that?” I ask, tilting my head toward him. “Like you’re auditioning for the role of ‘Mysterious Guy #1’ in a psychological thriller?”

His mouth twitches into a smile. “Only when I’m trying to impress someone.”

“Oh? And are you trying to impress me?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and that alone is its own kind of answer.

His eyes meet mine, and for a breath too long, the world narrows to just that—just the space between us, the tension strung taut like a wire.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” I say, my throat tight as the words leave me, almost too fragile to hold. “But… I want to understand it. Even if it’s confusing or messy.”

He shifts slightly, closing some of the space between us but not enough to be a threat—more like a quiet question. I can feel the heat radiating from him, but I don’t dare meet it head-on.

His eyes lock onto mine, searching, steady. There’s something in them—something unspoken, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m safe to trust. Or maybe if he’s safe to trust. I can’t tell which.

A thousand thoughts tumble in my mind, and I catch myself wanting to reach out, to close the gap—but caution pulls me back. Jensen is a storm wrapped in a smile. Dangerous and magnetic all at once.

I swallow, the pulse in my neck thudding louder than I want anyone to notice. “I don’t know where this leads. Or if it’s even real.”

His breath is slow, calm, as if he’s trying to steady himself too. “Me neither.”

We stand in silence. It’s a silence that speaks volumes—the kind that hums with possibility and fear tangled together. My heart is caught between wanting to lean in and knowing I need to hold back.

Neither of us moves first. It’s like we’re waiting for the other to give permission, to cross that invisible line.

Instead, I turn my gaze away, toward the painting again. Its colors blur as my thoughts whirl. For now, this quiet moment—this shared uncertainty—is enough.

But I know it won’t be for long.

~

Later that night, I warm up the leftover risotto in Lucy’s quiet kitchen. She’s already gone to bed, her bedroom door closed, a soft light glowing beneath the frame. I move slowly, barefoot on the tile, half-afraid to break the silence.

I stir the pot absently, watching steam rise in lazy curls. The scent of mushroom and thyme hits me again, earthy and warm and deeply nostalgic. I shouldn’t be hungry—not really—but something about the quiet hum of the house and the weight of today makes me want to feel full. Settled.

I eat at the counter, one elbow propped against the butcher block. It’s different now. The food still tastes good, but something’s shifted. I’m not sure if it’s the way Jensen looked at me in the studio or the way I can’t stop seeing him in the corner of my vision, like a word on the tip of my tongue.

I keep replaying that moment—his eyes on mine, the slight hitch in his breath when I said I wanted to find out what this was. Whatever this is.

But I didn’t kiss him. I won’t.

I don’t know him. Not really. And the truth is, I’m not convinced he’s even real—not in the way I understand reality. There’s a slant to him, something just a little too exact. Like he was built from my thoughts. Or memories.

And yet… he feels real. Real enough to leave an ache in my chest when he leaves a room. Real enough that I can still feel the ghost of his presence sitting beside me, long after he’s gone.

I take another bite of risotto and close my eyes.

What if he’s watching right now?

Not in a creepy way. Not even in a conscious way. But in that inescapable, inevitable way some people just know you. Like they were made with a map of your insides.

I press my palms flat against the cool counter.

“You’re not falling for him,” I whisper to no one. “You’re not even sure he’s him.”

Still, the question drifts up, slow and smoky: What if I want him to be?

The risotto is ridiculous.

Creamy, fragrant, perfectly balanced—like the kind of meal you’d have to bribe a chef for. I try not to make a sound, but the way Jensen glances at me, he knows I’m impressed. He doesn’t gloat, though.

He just smiles a little and keeps eating.

“You never said you could cook like this.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t come up.”

I stare at him over the rim of my wine glass. “No, but your taste in paint did.”

That earns a chuckle, quiet and surprised. “I thought it was a good distraction.”

“It was.” My voice is softer than I mean it to be.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy, but in a way that feels earned—like the air has settled between us, finally giving us a moment to just be. Still, I can feel him watching me from across the table, measuring the weight of this—whatever this is.

“What this is,” I say, eyes locked on my glass, “where is this going?”

His reply is quiet. “I don’t know… I just know I can’t stay away any longer.”

I don’t look at him right away. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll lean across the table and ruin whatever slow burn this is supposed to be. I’m drawn to him—have been since the moment I met him—but that doesn’t mean I trust it. Not yet.

And not just because of him.

We clear the dishes together, and he insists on washing them while I dry. The moment feels domestic in a way that tugs at something deep and unspoken. I glance at him as he hands me a plate, and for a heartbeat, he looks exactly like someone I’ve known forever.

But I haven’t.

The wine lingers in my system just enough to warm me, loosening my grip on the wariness I’ve been nursing since all of this started. Then, the warmth twists—the taste turning sharp and bitter, like the wine has soured on my tongue—and suddenly his emerald eyes are there, flashing through my mind, catching light and fracturing like shards of glass. They shimmer and shift, never still—warm one moment, sharp the next—always watching, impossible to look away from.

And then the air thickens—slow and sticky, like honey poured over stone. The world around me dims, quieting to a hush that presses against my skin. I feel him before I see him—a weight sliding into the edges of my vision, silent and cold, too heavy to ignore.

He stands just out of reach, face half in shadow. I think it’s Jensen. The way he holds himself. The shape of his shoulders. The quiet pull in my chest that draws me toward him.

But when he steps closer, I know.

It isn’t him.

The eyes are wrong. Still green, but sharper—cut through with gold. They don’t flicker with hesitation or hope like his do. These eyes burn.

“I missed you,” he says, voice lower than I remember. Too smooth. It curls in my gut like smoke.

I try to speak, but my mouth won’t move. My body feels frozen in place, like the dream is keeping me here on purpose.

His hand lifts, and though he never touches me, I feel it—just above my skin, almost warm.

“I’ve been waiting.”

That’s when I wake, breath ragged, sheets twisted around me like vines. My skin is clammy. My chest aches. I blink into the dark, half-expecting to find those eyes still watching from the corner of the room.

But I’m alone. I think.