Friends

Chapter 18

Marc's POV

It's been a week since our first "couch session." I still don't know what to call it—Safety Time? Couch Time? I have no clue. What I do know is that this space has become our Switzerland, our sanctuary. It's the place where we can be completely honest with each other, without fear of judgment. She can tell me anything, and I can do the same. We listen, we share, and we don't judge.

So far, everything's going well. I've been keeping things strictly platonic, even as I turn down her countless advances—and trust me, there have been many. Right now, we're cuddled up on the couch, and she keeps shifting so her body brushes against me in ways that are hard to ignore. We both had our first therapy sessions today. We decided to schedule them at the same time so we could talk about it afterward in our safe space, before heading to bed.

"How was therapy?" Jasmine asks. Fresh from the shower, she smells like a mix of fruit and cotton candy.

"We talked about you," I say,

"Oh, really?" Her voice rises with excitement as she tightens her grip on my arm. "What about me?"

"I told him I was proud of you," I reply.

"Proud of me? For what?" Her voice is even more animated now.

"For wanting to better yourself. For as long as I've known you, you've always said you deserve better, but never acted on it. Now you're acting on it, which shows me you're starting to believe it."

"You're proud of me?" she whispers, her voice softening. Her grip on my arm tightens, and I can hear her sniffle. Is she crying?

"I'm so proud of you," I say gently. "I also told him how we've never talked like this before, how we've never been this close. It feels like I'm gaining a best friend."

"A best friend?" she repeats.

"A best friend," I confirm. "I want to be here for you on this healing journey. I know you've struggled with a lot—figuring out how to navigate life and even this friendship in a healthy way. I want to support you."

Her grip on my arm loosens a bit.

"You must really like her," she says, her voice quiet but pointed. "She's a lucky woman."

Wait—what? Who does she think I'm talking about? Oh. She thinks I'm obsessed with someone else. Should I tell her it's her?

I mean, I know she's been flirting and making moves, but what if she thinks I'm some kind of creep? This space is supposed to be safe. How do I tell her she's the one I can't stop thinking about, the one I... well, fantasize about?

But maybe it's better to be honest. No, it is better to be honest. I don't want to be some idealized fantasy for her. I want to be real. I want her to see me for who I am and like me for that—or not. But lying or playing into a fantasy won't get us anywhere.

"I have something I need to tell you," I say, taking a deep breath.

"What is it?"

"There is no other person."

Her brow furrows in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"It's you," I confess. "The person I'm obsessed with—it's you."

Her eyes widen. "Me? You've been listening to me and Kendrick this whole time?"

"I know it's creepy and perverted, and I'm sorry. But you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." I pause, realizing that focusing on her looks might not help my case. "It's not just that. Yes, we didn't talk much before, but every time we did, you were everything I could've dreamed of and more. No one else even came close. Their energy wasn't yours, and it just felt pointless. I'm sorry for invading your privacy."