"What kind of tea is that?" Daniel asks, his eyes flicking from the chalkboard to the cup in my hands. I glance down at the jade liquid, then back up at him. "Why do you ask?" He grins, tilting his head. "Just curious. May I?" I hesitate. Daniel and I have been friends for as long as I can remember—since the day he first showed me around the maze of faculty lounges and supply closets in this school. But sharing a drink feels strangely intimate. Still, there's something in the way he’s watching me. "Here," I say, handing him the cup. "But no judging." He sets down the eraser and takes it, fingers brushing mine in the exchange. He lifts it to his lips and takes a slow sip. I watch as his brows furrow slightly, his lips pressing together. "Citrusy," he muses. "And… something else." "Green tea," I offer. "With lemon and lime." He nods, rolling the flavor over in his mind before handing it back. "Unexpected." I smirk. "Not a fan?" His ocean eyes flicker with something unreadable. "No, the opposite, actually." I take the cup back, wrapping my hands around it. The warmth feels different somehow, but I can’t explain it. "Do you ever get tired of living in the past?" I ask suddenly, changing the subject. Daniel glances at me over his shoulder, eraser held midair. "How so?" I nod toward the board, where faint traces of chalk dust cling despite his efforts. "Wars, fallen empires, long-dead rulers. Does it ever get… exhausting?" He leans against his desk, arms crossed. "Coming from the woman who spends her days romanticizing century-old love stories?" "At least mine are about passion," I counter, smiling. "Not war." Daniel chuckles, shaking his head. "That's the beauty of history, Liz—it has both." I study him. The last of the students are gone, and the usual school noise has nearly faded, but in that growing silence, something unspoken builds between us. "Are you heading out soon?" I ask, aiming for casual, but failing. Daniel lifts a stack of papers. "Yeah, just finishing up." I shift on my feet. I could ask: _Hey, would you walk me out?_ It’s late after all. But instead, I tell myself how he looks so focused and lost in thought. The question catches in my throat, suddenly seeming ridiculous. "Well," he says, not looking up, "have a lovely weekend, Liz." I hesitate, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. "You too, Daniel." Then I leave. Alone. I make it halfway to my car before the first drops begin to fall. I pull my jacket closer, but it does little to quell the quiet of the night, and the empty parking lot stretching endlessly around me. My car sits at the farthest corner, just beyond the reach of the dim overhead lights. Then my legs start to feel heavy under the weight of… footsteps, the sound clearly heard coming up from behind me, despite the thrumming of the rain. I freeze. "Hey there. Glad I caught up." Relief rushes through me so fast I nearly laugh. I turn, and there he is—Daniel, striding toward me, rain darkening his shirt and dampening his blonde hair. He shrugs off his coat before I can protest and drapes it over my shoulders, his fingers grazing my arm and lingering just a second too long. I clutch the fabric. It's warm, still carrying his scent, like a safety blanket wrapped around me. "You're going to get soaked," I murmur, watching as the rain drenches him. He just shrugs. I pull the coat tighter, inhaling deeply. "You know, Daniel," I say softly, "you're always taking care of me." He exhales a quiet laugh as we continue walking towards my car, but his expression is serious. "Maybe that's because I want to." His shirt clings to him now, fabric stretched across his chest. I shouldn't be looking. But I am. I stop, shielded by the parking garage, and he does the same. "You know. If this were a novel," I whisper, heart pounding, "this is the part where the characters would realize they've been falling for each other all along." Daniel reaches up, tucking a damp curl behind my ear, his still warm fingers dancing lightly on my skin. "Then maybe it's time we stop reading," he exhales, "and start writing our own." His eyes drop to my lips, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. A small, nervous laugh escapes. "I love that laugh," he says, voice lower now. He leans in— And then the world vanishes. —— Cold, sterile air rushes in, while fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a stark, artificial glow. The steady hum of machines presses in from all sides, and I inhale sharply, trying to ground myself. Dr. Harrt watches me from across the room, a clipboard balanced on his knee. His expression seems neutral, but his eyes— "Well," he says, tapping his pen against the clipboard, "it took a few sessions, but we did it. We’ve isolated your dream.” I exhale shakily, fingers curling into my sweater. He hands me a small device, no bigger than a pager, its blue indicator light glowing faintly. "Before you go to sleep, just hit the switch," he explains. "The tune it emits will ensure you experience the dream every time." I stare down at it, then let out a quiet laugh. "Thank you… Doctor Dream Catcher." Dr. Harrt's lips twitch, amused by my attempt at humor. But something about him shifts. He leans forward slightly, studying me. "You know," I say, tilting my head, "I've never asked, but… can you _see_ the dreams you, um, 'catch'?" His grip tightens slightly on the clipboard, and I notice a pause as he glances away—just long enough to make me wonder. "Bits and pieces, really," he admits finally. "But I see enough." His answer lingers between us, heavier than it should be, his blue eyes holding mine easily. "Liz," he says carefully, "can I ask you something?” I nod. “This last time… I noticed you dreamt about the tea again. Green tea with lemon and lime." His brow furrows slightly. "It's just… that's not a very common way to have it. And, honestly, I've never met anyone else who drinks it that way." He hesitates, then begins, "is that your favor—“ "I don't drink tea, Daniel," I interrupt, too quickly. "But I'd like to. Try it, I mean. The way you make it. Sorry, Dr. Harrt.” Daniel inhales sharply. “Just Daniel is fine, Liz.” His fingers tighten around the clipboard. "Daniel," I murmur, barely aware I'm saying his name. "There's a poetry reading at my school this weekend." My voice is softer now. "I remember you're fond of T. S. Eliot, and I think you'd really enjoy it." I swallow. "Would you like to go? With me?" A beat of silence. Then, slowly, his lips curve into a smile. He reaches out, fingers brushing mine as he takes my hand. I feel the warmth of them. The reality of them. And I have my answer.