Noelle's POV:

The dream doesn't start innocent. There's no build-up, no gentle lead-in. It's just Elliot pressing me against a wall somewhere that looks vaguely like the Black Box's green room. His mouth is hot on my neck. My fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he breathes against my skin, and the vibration of his voice sends shivers down my spine. His hands are everywhere. They're tangling in my hair, gripping my thigh as he hitches it around his waist, slipping under the hem of my shirt with a confidence the real Elliot has never shown.

Dream-me doesn't hesitate. I pull him closer, desperate for the weight of him. I drink in the taste of his mouth like I've been dying of thirst. His fingers trace the curve of my breast, and I gasp into his mouth as he whispers my name like it's something holy.

"Noelle," he murmurs, voice rough with want as he lifts me against the wall. "Look at me."

I do, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. Real Elliot's eyes are never this open, this readable. Dream Elliot holds nothing back.

"We fit," he says simply, our bodies pressing impossibly closer, and I know exactly what he means. Not just physically, though the evidence of that is currently making itself very well-known against my hip. But it's something deeper. Something terrifying.

"We fit," I echo, and then his mouth is on mine again. His hands slide down to grip my ass as I wrap my legs tight around him, and–

My alarm screeches.

I bolt upright, tangled in sheets damp with sweat, breathing like I've just run a sprint. My entire body thrums with frustrated adrenaline. For a moment, I'm completely disoriented. The weight of dream-Elliot's body is still a phantom pressure against mine. The ghost of his mouth is still hot on my skin.

"Fuck," I groan. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." I smack my alarm silent. My heart races like I've just chugged three espressos, and there's an uncomfortable ache between my legs.

My phone pings with a text:
Harlowe: Don't forget it's forklift day!!!

Perfect. Just perfect. Now I get to spend the day watching Harlowe flirt with the guy I just had a sex dream about while operating heavy machinery. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll crush myself under a pallet and be put out of my misery.

I drag myself to the shower, where I stand under water hot enough to scald. I hope it might burn away the memory of dream-Elliot's hand. It doesn't work. If anything, the sensory deprivation of closed eyes and rushing water makes the images more vivid.

By the time I'm toweling off, I've cycled through guilt, frustration, and the kind of desperation that makes rational thought nearly impossible. I flop on my bed and stare at the ceiling like it might offer guidance.

I need to talk to someone before I lose my mind. My thumb hovers over my phone screen before landing on my one childhood friend's contact. Polly.

"Hey," she says, her voice groggy. "What's the emergency?"

"I had a sex dream," I blurt.

"Oh." She pauses. "And you're calling me at 7 AM because...?"

"It was about Elliot."

Another pause. "The guy your friend has a crush on?"

"Yes. It makes me a terrible friend, though."

She clears her throat. "You know dreams aren't like crimes, right? Your subconscious can do whatever it wants. It's not like you actually hooked up with him."

I start rummaging through my draw for athletic clothes to wear. "It's not just the dream, Polly. I like him. I've liked him since orientation. But Harlowe had to say something first, and now I'm supposed to be helping her get with him."

"It's literally simple. You like him. You think he might like you? The only complication is this Harlowe person, who you've known for what, a week?"

I pull out a black sports bra with a zip front that does flattering things for my cleavage and matching high-waisted leggings.

"She and Amelia are my friends here."

"Okay, but that doesn't mean she owns him," Polly says with a hint of exasperation. "That's not how people work. You're just doing the thing again where you make up rules that don't actually exist."

"It's not a made up rule. It's loyalty." I tug on the leggings, examining my ass in the mirror. "Plus, I had to rebuild my entire social life after David. I'm not risking new friendships for a guy who probably doesn't even think about me that way."

"You don't know what he thinks because you refuse to find out," Polly points out.

I zip up the sports bra and throw on a loose tank top over it. It dips low enough to show a decent bit of skin. Then I gnaw on my bottom lip. "Maybe...I mean, if he actually likes me and makes a move, that's not my fault, right? I can't control how he feels."

"Is that your loophole?" There's a snort on the other end of the line. "That's some creative mental gymnastics."

"It's called not sabotaging everything here."

"It's called chickenshit," she counters. "Sorry, but you're just creating some scenario where you can get what you want without having to go after it. Which is fine if that makes you feel better, but let's call it like it is."

I wince. Polly doesn't do gentle, but she does do accurate.

I check the time. "I have to go. There are forklifts waiting to be operated."

"That's not a euphemism, is it?" she asks after a beat.

"I wish. No, we're literally getting forklift certified today. For set design."

"Try not to run anyone over, she says. "Don't crash if he flirts with you."

"Thanks, Polly."

"Maybe think about being honest. If not with Elliot, at least Harlowe. People usually figure things out anyway, and then it's worse."

She hangs up and leaves me with that uncomfortable truth ringing in my ears.

I shove my feet into my sneakers and grab my bag, trying to ignore both the lingering heat of my dream and the chill of Polly's assessment. Today is about forklift certification. Not Elliot. Not his hands. Not his eyes. Not the way he says my name/

And definitely not about how well we fit.

The classroom is already half-full when I arrive. Clusters of students are in various states of Monday morning consciousness. Most people look like they grabbed whatever gym clothes were lying around: faded t-shirts, ancient sweatpants, the occasional brave souls in bike shorts. I spot Amelia and Harlowe saving a seat for me near the front.

"I come bearing caffeine," I announce as I hand Amelia the extra coffee I picked up.

"Bless you," she says, accepting as if I've just handed her the keys to eternal life. "Harlowe refuses to share hers."

"I told you to get your own," Harlowe says without a hint of remorse. "Oh my god, Noelle, did you see the boys yet? Elliot is in workout clothes that is doing things to my blood pressure."

I take a sip of coffee to hide whatever my face might be doing. "That's nice."

"Nice? Please," Harlowe scoffs. "The man looks like he should be on the cover of Men's Health. I almost dropped my coffee."

Amelia nudges me. "She's extra this morning because she added pre-workout to her coffee."

"It's called efficiency," Harlowe defends. "I'm getting amped for this forklift certification."

Amelia starts, "Who gets excited by that?. What–"

The door opens and Elliot walks in with friends. Harlowe wasn't lying. He's wearing a gray tank that shows off his shoulders and arms. He pairs it with a pair of fitted running shorts that hit mid-thigh; the kind that makes it obvious he doesn't skip leg day. I force my eyes back to my coffee.

A man carrying a clipboard and looking slightly harried enters. He sets up a projector and laptop as if he's done it a million times.

"Is that who's teaching us?" Amelia whispers.

"I bet his PowerPoint has clip art." Harlowe groans.

The guys find seats in the brown behind us. It's just far enough away that I can pretend I don't notice when Elliot settles right behind me.

"Hey," he says, casual and low. "Anyone know what we're in for?"

"Death by PowerPoint, probably," Harlowe replies. "But, hey, at least we get to drive big machines after."

"I've never driven one before." Elliot admits. He laughs softly as he says, "I guess I missed my opportunity to be a warehouse manager."

His laugh hits somewhere beneath my ribs. I have to look away because all I can think about is how it felt pressed against my neck in my dream.

The man at the front clears his throat and saves me from whatever road my brain was going down.

"Good morning," he says. "My name is Bernard Kellerman, the Equipment Supervisor here at Deer Lake. Today, you will be receiving basic forklift operation certification as required by your program." He clicks to his first slide. "This is a forklift."

"No way," Michael says behind us. "I thought it was a spaceship."

A ripple of laughter passes through our section. Bernard doesn't smile, not exactly. But there's a slight softening around his eyes that suggests he's not completely humorless.

What follows is possibly the most mind-numbing forty-five minutes of my educational career. Bernard works through slide after slide of safety regulations, maintenance schedules, and weight capacity charts. He speaks in the same monotone regardless of whether he's discussing routine maintenance or horrific accidents.

"The most common forklift accidents occur when–" Bernard is saying when Ethan's voice cuts through the haze.

"When theater kids are forced to operate them?" he suggests, and the whole room laughs.

Even Bernard's mouth quirks. "I was going to say 'when operators fail to check their surroundings,' but your answer isn't technically invalid."

My attention drifts as Bernard moves on to the thrilling topic of proper pallet stacking. From the corner of my eye, I see Elliot lean forward, elbows on his knees. His tank gapes slightly at the neck, and I catch a glimpse of his collarbone. My brain helpfully supplies an image of my dream-self dragging my tongue along that same ridge of bone.

I sit up straighter and try to focus on the PowerPoint, which is now displaying a graph of forklift-related injuries by industry.

"Did you know forklifts kill eighty-five people a year in the United States?" He says.

I stifle a yawn. "These fun facts are not doing it today."

"What? This scintillating presentation not enough for you?" Harlowe asks. But then she raises her hand. "Excuse me, Bernard. How long does the certification take? Like, once we start the actual driving part?"

Bernard blinks, momentarily thrown off. "The practical portion takes about ninety minutes. We have three forklifts available, so you'll rotate and be working in pairs."

I glance back at Elliot, but he's looking at his guy friend.

"You can figure it out amongst yourselves." He says. "We'll head out to the loading dock in ten minutes. Any questions?"

Hands shoot up around the room. Bernard points to someone at the back.

"If we crash–"

"You won't crash," Bernard interrupts. "That's the entire point of this certification.

More questions follow, most variations on "what happens if we break something expensive?" I don't know how Bernard is not crashing out.

"You guys are terrible," I say to Danny and Michael when they suggest trying to drift with the forklift.

As pairs start forming, Harlowe turns to me and lowers her voice. "Hey, are you cool if I pair up with Amelia? She's low-key freaking out about driving that thing."

I blink, a bit thrown. "Really? Amelia?"

"Yeah, she told me she almost crashed her dad's golf cart into the pool this summer. Serious machinery anxiety. And I promised her I'd help."

"Oh. Sure, that's fine," I say, though I'm not entirely convinced. I haven't heard anything about this, and Amelia drives her car just fine.

"Thanks, you're the best," Harlowe says as she squeezes my arm. "Plus," she lowers her voice even further, "I'm not about to try to seduce anyone while I'm sweating and panicking on a forklift. Not my sexiest look."

That's the real reason.

"All right, people," Bernard announces, and he closes his laptop. "Let's head out to the loading dock. Stand with your partners."

Everyone stands, and the scrape of chairs creates a brief cacophony. As we file toward the exit, I realize now I need to find a partner. However, most are already walking with their pairs. My eyes dart around the room.

"Need a partner?"