Friends

Chapter 22

A/N: Chapters 23, 24, 25, 26 and 27 are on Patreon if you want to check those out!

Marcqwuan's POV:

It's been a week since my first therapy session, and honestly, everything with Jasmine has been perfect. It feels like I've stepped into one of those coming-of-age movies—the ones where the awkward teenage boy finally gets the girl he's been crushing on his whole life. Only this isn't a movie, and I'm not a teenager. But still, it feels surreal. I can't wait to tell my therapist.

As soon as I sit down, though, he hits me with that look—the one that says he already knows I've done something questionable.

"Let me get this straight," he starts, leaning back in his chair with his notepad resting on his knee. "I tell you that the best way to move forward is to keep sex off the table. You agreed with me. And then, the same day, she's fondling your genitals, and you were about to go down on her. Am I saying this correctly?"

I wince, sinking into the chair like it might swallow me whole. "When you put it like that, it sounds awful. Like I didn't learn a single thing in therapy," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck, trying to scrub away the shame creeping up my spine.

He raises an eyebrow but keeps his tone even. "I was just summarizing the events that took place after our session, Marc."

"Yeah, but—" I lean forward, my hands gesturing like I'm trying to physically shape my defense. "You've gotta give me some credit here. I could've taken it way further, but I didn't! I took the initiative to stop everything. That's growth, right?" I flash a hopeful grin, searching his face for a sliver of validation.

A small chuckle escapes him. "The old you would've let your impulses take over, so yes, it does show progress."

"Exactly!" I exclaim, relief washing over me like I just passed an impossible test.

He shifts in his seat, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. "It's been a week since our last session. How's your platonic journey going—aside from the night you almost completely disregarded our therapy session?" His tone is light, but there's a faint trace of disappointment tucked beneath it.

I sigh, running a hand down my face. "It's been tough."

"Why's that?" he asks, pen poised and ready.

I lean back, staring at the ceiling for a second as if the answer might be up there. "I'm extremely attracted to her. And she just walks around the house in basically nothing. Every night, we cuddle—not naked, but close enough. And when we cuddle, she does that thing women do when they want—" I pause, lowering my voice slightly, "—you know, dick, when they scoot back on you? She's constantly flirting. It's like the moment I told her we couldn't have sex, she decided to double down and try even harder."

I realize my voice has gotten louder, filled with frustration, and I catch myself. My therapist, unphased, just raises an eyebrow.

"Cuddling naked is not platonic," he says flatly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

I blink. That's what he took from all that?

"I said basically nothing. She's not actually naked," I shoot back, a bit defensive, watching as he jots something down in his notebook.

He puts the pen down, crosses one leg over the other, and folds his hands in his lap. "I think we need to talk about boundaries."

And just like that, the session shifts—because apparently, that's where I keep screwing things up.

brows furrowing as confusion knots up in my chest. I can feel my face tighten, my words coming out more defensive than I intended.

"Boundaries aren't just for romantic relationships," he explains, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "They apply to every dynamic—friends, family, even at work. With the level of temptation you're feeling around your roommate, it's important to set clear boundaries so things don't cross into territory that's no longer platonic."

His words hang in the air, sinking in slowly. Have I ever actually set boundaries with Jasmine? I think back—nope. When she moved in, the only thing I asked was for her to pay her share of the rent on time. That was it. No discussions about personal space or, you know, not trying to hook up with each other.

"Alright," I say, shifting in my seat, "what kind of boundaries should I enforce?"

He taps his pen against his notepad thoughtfully. "Well, you mentioned that what she wears—or the lack of what she wears—arouses you. Now, this is a sensitive topic."

I squint. "Why is that a sensitive topic?"

He adjusts his glasses slightly, settling into what sounds like a practiced explanation. "Because women are a marginalized and historically oppressed group in this country. There was a time when they weren't allowed to wear certain things because men—the oppressors—made it illegal. It's a complex issue tied to autonomy and control."

I nod, but the history buff in me can't resist. "Well, technically, those were white men making those rules. Black men didn't exactly have the power to oppress anyone back then in this country. We were fighting our own battles."

His jaw tightens slightly, but he lets out a patient breath. "Let's not argue semantics here. The point is, you need to find a way to communicate with Jasmine that you want her to feel comfortable in her own home, but there also need to be some boundaries to reduce unnecessary tension."

"Okay, but you said boundaries, plural. That's just one."

He chuckles softly, scribbling something in his notebook. "Fair point. Consider that your homework. Make a list of behaviors that cross the line of platonic friendship. Write them down. Then have an actual conversation with her about it."

I nod slowly, thinking it over. That shouldn't be too hard... right?

He leans back, smirking slightly. "I'll even give you a hint to start that list: you two probably shouldn't be trying to go down on each other."

I snort, shaking my head. "Yeah, I guess that's a solid boundary."