Dr. Rinaldi knocked twice before peeking inside the door.
"Today we'll do something different," he said, his tone softer than usual. "A safe session. Just the two of you. No mirror. No recording. No one watching. I want him to feel safe enough to open up."
Clara nodded. Her pulse jumped to her throat. Just the two of us. The words echoed too loudly in her chest.
Rinaldi turned off the light behind the one-way glass; the reflective pane went black.
"I'll lock the corridor," he added, sliding the bolt shut. "If you need me, knock twice. Otherwise…" He paused, his eyes briefly searching hers. "…let whatever needs to happen, happen."
Then he closed the door. The click of the lock was small, precise, irreversible.
Adrian was already there.
Sitting quietly, hands on his knees, posture calm… too calm.
He wasn't looking at the floor or the ceiling.
He was looking straight at her, as if recognition itself was a physical act.
"Good morning, Adrian." Her voice wore its professional tone, the same one she used to hold her distance. "How did you sleep?"
"I didn't."
He said it like a fact. "It doesn't matter."
Clara turned her chair slightly. The fabric gave a dry sound. It doesn't matter. It mattered more than he knew.
"There's no recording today," she said, gesturing toward the empty desk. "No one's listening. It's just us."
A flicker crossed his eyes. Not relief. Warning.
"I know," he murmured. "They called it a safe session, right?"
"Yes."
"It's not for me."
"What do you mean?"
"It's for you."
Her hand tightened on the armrest. Don't react. Don't give him ground.
"We need to talk about the kiss," she said, eyes fixed on the desk. She said it like a diagnosis.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to hear.
Adrian didn't move. Didn't flinch. He simply let the word kiss sit between them like a third person in the room.
"Did you dream it?" he asked quietly.
"I felt it."
"That's not the same."
"I know."
It came back in pieces — the closeness, the shared breath, the memory of warmth.
Her body remembered faster than her mind.
"It was a mistake," she managed.
"It was a memory," he said.
"Of what?"
His gaze lowered to the pen in her hand, then rose again.
"Of how control breaks," he said softly. "And what comes after."
Don't touch her.
The oldest rule. The only one that ever mattered. Because the body tells the truth long before the mind allows it.
He could smell her: the faint antiseptic, the paper, the trace of rain in her hair.
Every movement she made was a barrier disguised as order.
"You don't trust me," he said, a statement, not a question.
"I don't trust myself when I'm near you."
It hit him like a quiet confession.
The air shifted. The silence outside the room disappeared. Safe session.
The perfect trap.
"Tell me you didn't want it," he said, voice low.
Clara's fingers tightened on the pen.
"I did," she whispered. "That's what scares me."
Something inside him gave way. He stood.
"Please, stay seated," she said, but he didn't.
Her tone was steady, her heartbeat wasn't.
Each of his steps felt soundless but physical, like a vibration under her skin.
The distance shrank until even air seemed heavy.
"You know what you do to me," he said quietly. "You see it. Every time I get close."
Clara swallowed hard. "I don't know what you are."
He tilted his head. "I'm what reminds you how to want."
A pause. "And how much that terrifies you."
The light shifted or maybe it was her blood.
Without meaning to, she rose from her chair.
She didn't move toward him; she simply stopped moving away.
"I can't…" she started.
"Don't say that," he cut in, voice barely more than breath. "Don't use 'can't' as a wall. Stay here, in the moment before choosing."
The place before choices.
That was where he'd first kissed her. Between the rule and the breaking of it.
He was close now, not touching, but close enough for proximity to ache.
Clara saw his eyes clearly: not dark, not light… focused.
They decided the temperature of the room.
When his hand lifted toward her face, he didn't touch skin.
He traced the air beside it, close enough to feel the static.
It felt like he was touching the part of her that remembered too much.
"Say my name," he murmured. "It helps me remember."
"Don't," she said, but didn't step back.
He reached for her wrist, careful, hesitant as if holding a fragile truth.
The warmth traveled up her arm like recognition.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
"I haven't told you to start," she answered.
His faint smile was both mistake and confession.
The space between them vanished. Not with violence. With inevitability.
It wasn't supposed to happen. It did. It wasn't hunger; it was gravity.
Her nearness, the quiet tremor in her breath, everything inside him aligned toward her.
Their closeness spoke louder than any word could.
Her voice against his shoulder, her breath caught between them, all of it too human to unlearn.
"Stop me," he whispered, even as the distance disappeared. She didn't.
The sound that left her throat wasn't denial. It was surrender… soft, unwilling, real.
For a second, the world narrowed to a pulse shared between two people who no longer knew which one was dreaming. It wasn't neat.
It was real. Every movement felt wrong and perfectly right.
He wasn't holding her tightly, but the space he left unclaimed burned worse than touch.
Her body remembered warmth; her mind called it danger.
Somewhere between those two, desire took shape.
"Adrian…" she breathed. The way she said his name made him move closer.
He froze, caught between guilt and gravity.
"Tell me this is a dream," she whispered. "Tell me we won't remember."
"No," he said, voice rough. "This time we remember."
She gripped his sleeve, instinctively. For a heartbeat, the world tilted.
"I can't," she said suddenly. It wasn't a rejection. It was a wound.
He stopped. Not slowly, like breaking glass.
Her eyes were open, shining, pleading, burning.
That "I can't" didn't close anything; it opened too much. He let go of her wrist gently, as if releasing something alive. Her warmth clung to his palms.
"You're right," he said softly. "Not now."
He stepped back. Each inch away was a decision.
"Don't think I'm walking away," he added, voice unsteady. "I'm choosing to remember you."
The door should have been locked.
It opened anyway, without a sound.
"Adrian."
His name slipped out, weightless. He didn't turn.
When he left, the room exhaled.
She stood motionless, her pulse filling her vision.
Her fingers touched her lips… not romantically, but as if to confirm the heat still there. She sat back down slowly.
No tears. No words. Just the echo of what couldn't be undone.
Then a faint red light blinked on the empty table. No recorder. No device.
Still, the light was there.
On the dark mirror, a line appeared, traced by invisible breath:
Session 16 – Emotional breach detected.
Clara closed her eyes.
She saw it again, the scene, reversed: not her reaching for him, not him losing control, but two people recognizing each other in the one place where memory still hurt.
The door closed on its own.
The corridor stayed silent.
"Rinaldi?" she called softly. No answer.
Only the fading glow on the glass, dissolving like a secret.
Clara stepped closer to the mirror and leaned her forehead against the cold surface.
"I can't," she whispered. "Not now."
In the corner of her reflection, for a brief heartbeat, Adrian's outline appeared: not solid, not gone.
Real enough to feel.
The room didn't answer.
But her body did.