“Sure. Let me just grab my bag?” Her voice is hesitant with question, as though I might change my mind. She’s sweet but insecure.

I nod before stepping outside and lighting up a smoke.

When she’s on the back of my bike, her fingers grip my waist in excitement and fear. She tells me, “I’ve never been on a bike before,” as I put a helmet on her head. Yet she trusts me.

And, now, look what I’ve done.

“I don’t know what happened. I was … dreaming. Let me bring you home. You shouldn’t stay here with me.”

I could have killed you, I think. Another round of sweat coats my forehead.

I jump out of bed and move around the room, steadying my trembling hands as I grab her strewed clothes off the gray-carpeted floor. My place isn’t much, but I always keep it spotless and organized.

“Rituals,” I mumble under my breath, the word leaving my mouth without any thought.

My dream hits me again, ricocheting around my brain. The force is so strong; it stops my breath.

I exhale, focusing on the task at hand—dressing Lilly. Slowly, I guide long and lean legs back into lacy black panties, trying to remain gentle. Her black miniskirt goes on next as guilt hits me like a freight train.

She’s moving slowly but thankfully letting me help. Next, I clasp her bra behind her back and slide her white T-shirt over her head. It says, Stumble Inn. Have a drink.

Millions of emotions threaten to take me down, but I tell them to shut the fuck up. Right now, I have to make sure she gets dressed and goes home safely. I’ll deal with myself later. When she’s clothed, I throw a pair of jersey sleep pants onto my legs and a blue T-shirt with the word NAVY in bold white letters.

I help her into my red pickup. Some country song plays on the radio as I try not to drive over any potholes. Like it’s hard for her to speak, she tells me her address. I force myself to stick to the speed limit.

Getting to her home, a simple bolted-down trailer, I park the car in front. She opens the car door herself, but I run around to the side before she can exit, taking her hand in mine to help her down. I hold the small of her back as we walk. She fumbles with her keys, a massive chain, but quickly finds them. The door opens to a clean home with white walls and flowery furniture.

Her feet turn toward her bedroom, and I swiftly follow her lead. Hitting the bedroom lights, I lift her in my arms and gently place her on top of the bed, pulling off her short boots. The bedspread is pink. A large framed photo sits on her wooden nightstand. She is smiling in a blue cap and gown next to an older man with a wide, proud grin. Lilly is someone’s daughter.