The dream starts warm.

There’s sunlight on my face, wind in my hair. I’m laughing—really laughing, the kind that comes from the chest and spills out without permission. Someone’s beside me, his hand brushing mine on a gearshift.

“Hold steady,” he says, voice deep, teasing. “You always jerk too soon.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not used to driving something this old.”

He grins. “That’s the charm. No tech, no sensors. Just you and the road.”

The smell of engine oil and sea salt fills the air. We’re by the coast, the waves crashing close enough to mist the windshield. I can’t see his face clearly, but I know that voice. It wraps around me, protective, familiar.

“I’ll protect you,” he says. “Always.”

Then the light changes. Everything turns gray. The sound of the sea is replaced by screeching tires, shattering glass, the smell of burning.

I try to scream, but my voice doesn’t work.

And then—darkness.

---

I wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted around my legs. My chest hurts like I’ve been punched.

The room’s pitch black except for the faint green light of the clock. 3:27 a.m.

“Elara?”

Adrian’s voice—rough, sleepy, coming from the doorway.

I press a hand to my heart. “I—had a dream.”

He’s beside me in seconds, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What kind of dream?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. “It felt real.”

He reaches out, his hand on my arm, gentle at first. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” His grip tightens a little. “What did you see?”

“I said I don’t know.”

He studies me, eyes shadowed in the dark. Then he pulls me closer, too close, his arms wrapping around me like a cage.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs against my hair. “You’re safe here.”

His heartbeat thuds hard against my chest.

I freeze.

That phrase—don’t fight it.

I’ve heard it before.

Not from him.

Not like this.

---

After a long silence, I manage to whisper, “You’re hurting me.”

He doesn’t move right away. Then, like realizing it too late, his arms loosen. “Sorry. Reflex.”

I push back enough to see his face. “Reflex?”

“You were thrashing.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Elara.” His tone sharpens, the soft part gone. “You were screaming. I had to stop you.”

I blink. “I wasn’t screaming.”

His eyes flicker, and for the first time, he looks unsure. “Maybe you don’t remember.”

That line again. The same one he uses whenever something doesn’t add up.

I pull the blanket tighter around me. “I remembered something.”

He stiffens. “What kind of something?”

“Nothing clear. Just... someone. A man.”

His voice drops. “What kind of man?”

I search his face. “He said he’d protect me.”

Adrian’s expression shifts in a flash—anger, fear, something I can’t name. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do.”

“No,” he says quickly. “You’re mixing things up again. That’s part of the recovery. The brain plays tricks.”

I stare at him. “You mean like the trick where I don’t remember who I am?”

He looks away. “You’re exhausted.”

“I was fine until I dreamed about someone who wasn’t you.”

That hits. His jaw clenches. “Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

He stands suddenly, pacing to the window. “Then don’t. But stop digging, Elara. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

His voice cracks slightly on the last word.

---

When he finally leaves, the air feels too still, too heavy.

I stay awake, watching the thin line of dawn bleed into the sky. The waves crash faintly outside, steady as breathing.

I can still hear the laughter from the dream. It echoes at the edges of my mind, tugging. The man’s voice. The smell of oil and salt.

I whisper it under my breath—I’ll protect you.

My stomach twists.

Why does that feel truer than anything Adrian’s ever said to me?

---

By morning, he’s back to his usual self. Calm, composed, shirt ironed, coffee in hand like the night never happened.

He sets a tray on the bedside table. “Breakfast.”

I glance at it—eggs, toast, orange juice, all arranged too neatly. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

He sits again, eyes studying me. “You slept after I left?”

I lie. “Yes.”

“Good.” He pauses, then adds, “Dreams can be deceptive, Elara. Sometimes they’re just fragments of imagination.”

“Sometimes they’re memories,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just stirs his coffee with a spoon he doesn’t need.

“Do you ever dream?” I ask.

He looks up, startled by the question. “Not about good things.”

I wait.

He doesn’t elaborate.

---

When he leaves for his so-called “meeting,” I slip out of bed and head to the garage. The house is still, the staff busy pretending they don’t see me.

The garage smells like metal and dust. Rows of cars, polished, perfect. Except one.

At the far end, under a gray tarp, sits something old. A car that doesn’t fit the rest—rusted edges, cracked leather seats, paint chipped from salt air.

My chest tightens.

I lift the tarp.

The scent hits me instantly—engine oil, ocean, smoke.

My knees almost buckle.

I climb inside, fingers trembling as I trace the steering wheel.

There’s a small photograph wedged near the dashboard. Two people, smiling at the camera.

Him. The man from my dream. And me.

Except—there’s no Adrian.

My hands start shaking harder. I flip the photo over.

A note scrawled on the back in smudged ink: Don’t trust him.

The world tilts.

I drop the photo, stumble out of the car.

Outside, I hear footsteps approaching—the slow, deliberate kind that already know I’m here.

Adrian’s voice cuts through the air. “Elara?”

I spin around, heart in my throat. “What is this car?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

“Answer me.”

He glances at the car, then back at me. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. There’s a photo inside—of me. Who was he?”

He’s quiet for too long.

Finally, he says, “A mechanic. Someone who worked for me.”

“That’s not true.”

He steps forward, tone low. “You’re confusing yourself again.”

I shake my head, backing up. “No. I remember him.”

He closes the distance in two strides, grabs my wrists—not rough, but firm enough to stop me from moving.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice shaking now. “You need to stop digging. You don’t know what you’re waking up.”

I stare at him, terrified and defiant. “Then maybe I already did.”

His grip tightens once before he lets go, exhaling hard. “Go upstairs. Please.”

I don’t move.

“Elara,” he says again, voice softer but dangerous underneath, “go.”

I turn and run.

---

Back in my room, I lock the door and slide down against it. My hands won’t stop trembling.

In my mind, the dream plays again—the warmth, the laughter, the promise.

“I’ll protect you.”

Who was he protecting me from?

Because now, it feels like the answer is standing just outside my door.