I know I should have told him I needed time to think about it, talked to Aaron or Dr. Bright or anyone about going inside the head of someone I’d known for two weeks, going over to his apartment, by myself, and immediately falling asleep, but if I’m totally honest, I jumped at the chance to dive into someone’s head with their explicit permission. To use my ability to help someone, show myself—show everyone—that it wasn’t just a compulsion I couldn’t stop, but a powerful tool. The only reason I didn’t dreamdive the moment he asked yesterday is, well, two people passed out on a park bench might draw some attention and Damien seemed reluctant to invite me back to his place.

I already knew where he lived—before one of our coffees, we’d stopped by his apartment to get his coat because “oh come on, Rose, it’s not that cold” and then it turned out to, in fact, be that cold. Idiot. It wasn’t far from our park, in a building that was a bit like Damien—totally unremarkable. Despite the proximity, Damien tried to brainstorm some other places we could go. But between my family and the fact that neither of us had an office (though I did wonder, briefly, if I should suggest going to Dr. Bright’s, but she’d already agreed to come and meet Damien tomorrow, maybe see if she can help and I wanted to dreamdive now), Damien’s place was the obvious choice.

“Let’s do it tomorrow morning.” He sighed. “I just need some time to clean the place up.”

I was a little disappointed I’d have to wait, but I’m not exactly the neatest person in the world, so I understood. When I got there this morning though, I wondered what exactly he’d been cleaning up.

After Damien closed the door behind me, we just stood there, two steps into his apartment, not saying anything. He didn’t invite me to sit or offer water or really do anything normal that a person would do when you’re in their home but, then again, nothing about this was normal.

So I took the opportunity to look around the place. To call it a “home” may be too strong of a word. The furniture was nice—a lot nicer than I expected, honestly, based on the way Damien dresses—but there was nothing hung on the walls, no trendy throw rugs or comfy pillows, no TV, no knickknacks, no sense that anyone lived there. It was sparse as HELL. The sole non-furniture objects were a stack of dog-eared paperbacks by a chair near the window, the only blush of Damien’s personality in the whole space. Something in my heart squeezed tightly.

“So, this is the place,” he said finally, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat.