The Man My Husband Bought

My husband chose a man for me.

He said it was not a man. He said it was a therapeutic model, a temporary companion generated inside a dream.

But the next morning, when Adrian looked at the report and went pale, I knew he was wrong.

He had not bought me a model.

He had bought me the first dream I wanted to return to.

That afternoon, Adrian placed the Somnia Protocol agreement on our dining table.

The folder was thick and silver gray, stamped with a crescent moon. The paper smelled new, like a hospital and a hotel at the same time.

I sat across from him and did not touch the pen.

"What is this?" I asked.

"A marital intimacy restoration program," Adrian said.

He said it so calmly he might have been describing a new fitness plan.

"It is not an open relationship," he added, as if he had already rehearsed my objection. "It is not about letting you be with someone else. The program is designed to bypass the pressure you feel around real physical intimacy, wake the response inside a controlled dream, then bring that response back into the marriage."

I looked at him.

"So our marriage needs treatment."

He did not answer quickly enough.

That was the answer.

We had not truly been together in six months.

We did not sleep in separate rooms. We did not throw plates or scream in the hallway. We still woke in the same bed, drank coffee in the same kitchen, turned off the lamps at the same time each night. From the outside, we looked like a quiet, civilized marriage.

But at night, he did not touch me.

And I did not touch him.

Sometimes his hand brushed mine under the sheets. He always pulled away at once, as if he had touched something old and breakable that no longer belonged to him.

At first I thought he was tired.

Then I thought I was no longer desirable.

Then I discovered something worse.

When he stopped reaching for me, part of me felt relieved.

"Lena." Adrian pushed the agreement a little closer. "This is not a punishment."

"Then what is it?"

"A method."

"For what?"

"For helping you feel safe again."

I laughed once.

"I am not short on safety."

I was short on something else.

I did not say that aloud.

The first page of the agreement read:

Participant: Lena Vale, 31.

Marital status: Married.

Program objective: Restore intimate response.

I stared at the word restore.

It was too clean. Too direct.

As if someone had written the problem I kept hidden on a page and asked me to sign beneath it.

"How does it work?" I asked.

Adrian opened his tablet and showed me a simple diagram.

A sleep band. Sensors. A diffuser. A dream companion model.

"Once you fall asleep, the system generates an environment," he said. "Inside it, a companion model appears and adjusts according to your reactions."

"Then?"

"Then Somnia analyzes which forms of closeness relax you, which ones trigger resistance, and which sequence might help us rebuild in waking life."

"So the man is practice."

"A temporary stand-in," Adrian said. "The final goal is me. Us."

"A companion model."

"Yes."

"Male?"

His finger paused on the edge of the tablet.

"By default."

"Will he touch me?"

Adrian looked up.

I had meant to embarrass him.

But once the words left my mouth, I embarrassed myself too.

Will he touch me?

The thought tightened something in my chest.

For six months, I had almost forgotten those words could still do anything to me.

Adrian said, "Only if you consent."

"In the dream?"

"Yes. The system recognizes verbal permission. If you say stop, it stops. If you say yes, it continues."

"And you will know?"

He went quiet.

I watched him.

"Adrian."

"I will see a report."

"What kind of report?"

"Heart rate. Sleep stage. Authorization points."

"What does authorization point mean?"

"A record of when you allow the model to touch you."

The dining room went very still.

Somewhere in the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed.

I leaned back slowly.

"So if I let that man touch me in a dream, you will know."

"I will not see the images."

"But you will know."

"Yes."

I should have stood up.

I should have told him the entire thing was obscene.

I did not.

Because suddenly I wanted to know what his face would look like when he saw that report.

Would he be jealous?

Would he regret it?

Would he, for the first time in half a year, have to imagine that maybe I was not incapable of wanting?

Maybe my wanting had simply stopped pointing at him.

The thought shamed me.

It excited me too.

I picked up the pen.

Adrian watched my hand.

"You do not have to sign today," he said.

"You want me to."

"I want us to have a chance."

I lowered my head and signed.

Lena Vale.

Only after I finished did I realize my palm was damp.

That night, Adrian set up Somnia in our bedroom himself.

The white diffuser went on the nightstand.

The silver sleep band closed around my left wrist.

Two transparent sensors adhered behind my temples.

When Adrian's fingertips brushed the skin behind my ear, I felt nothing.

He noticed.

So did I.

Neither of us said a word.

"If anything feels wrong, you say stop," he said quietly.

"And if it feels good?"

His hand paused.

I looked up at him.

I did not mean to ask it that way.

Or maybe I did.

Maybe I wanted to see one crack in that careful face.

He recovered quickly.

"Then the protocol is working."

But his voice had changed.

I closed my eyes.

The diffuser began to breathe.

Rain came into the air first. Then cedar. Then the faintest trace of tobacco.

Adrian did not smoke.

"Is that scent generated too?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Based on what?"

"Your response data."

I wanted to ask more, but sleep had already begun.

It was not ordinary sleep.

It felt like a warm hand lowering itself over my eyes.

I heard Adrian pick up the tablet.

Then the world went dark.

In the dream, I was standing in a bedroom I had never seen before.

Rain moved down the windows in long silver lines.

The room was old. The wallpaper had darkened at the corners. The bed was large, made with deep gray sheets. An empty glass sat on the nightstand. There was no fire in the fireplace, but the ashes still glowed with heat.

I looked down and saw that I was wearing a black slip.

It was not mine.

The fabric was thin, the straps narrow, the hem just above my knees. It did not reveal too much, not exactly. But it made me feel seen.

I reached to pull the neckline higher.

Then a man's voice came from the doorway.

"Do not cover yourself so quickly."

I turned.

He stood just inside the door in a white shirt and black trousers, barefoot, his dark hair damp as if he had just come in from the rain. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms. His eyes were deep, and there was a small scar near the corner of his mouth.

He looked at me.

Directly.

Not crudely.

But not politely either.

It had been too long since a man had looked at me that way.

My body knew it before I did.

I gripped the edge of the slip.

He saw.

"Are you the model?" I asked.

"No."

"Then who are you?"

"The man your husband bought by mistake."

Cold moved down my spine.

"You know Adrian?"

"I know he is outside reading the report."

I looked toward the door before I could stop myself.

It was shut.

But suddenly I felt Adrian on the other side of it, unable to see us, able to read enough.

The thought made me ashamed.

It made me warm too.

The man took one step forward.

I stepped back.

He stopped immediately.

"I will not touch you," he said.

"Because the system will not let you?"

"Because I do not want you to wake up tomorrow and blame me for what you chose."

I had no answer to that.

He was too precise.

So precise it felt as if this was not the first time he had entered my dreams.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Julian."

When he said it, the ashes in the fireplace gave off a soft pulse of light.

"Julian what?"

"For now, that is enough."

"You enjoy sounding mysterious."

"No," he said. "I am trying not to scare you away."

I gave a short laugh.

"Do I look like I run away?"

His gaze lowered to my hands.

My fingers were still clenched in the fabric.

"You look like you have already run for a long time."

The room quieted around us.

I wanted to argue.

I could not find a clean lie.

Because he was right.

I had been running from Adrian without ever leaving the house. Not with my body, but in a quieter way. I had locked away my desire, my resentment, my embarrassment. Eventually, I locked myself out too.

Julian took another step.

This time I did not move.

"What were you thinking when you signed tonight?" he asked.

"I do not remember."

"Lie."

The rain grew louder.

I frowned. "Are all dream men this rude?"

"A therapeutic model would be polite," he said. "I am not one."

"Then what are you?"

"The one who makes you tell the truth."

My heart gave one hard beat.

There were still several steps between us, but I could smell him now.

Rain.

Tobacco.

Warm skin.

I hated that I noticed.

I hated more that I wanted to keep noticing.

"You wanted him jealous," Julian said.

Heat rose into my face.

"Shut up."

"When you signed, you thought, if he sees the report, if he knows another man touched me, will he finally react?"

"I said shut up."

I lifted my hand to push him away.

But he had not come close enough for me to touch.

That made it worse.

All my anger fell short.

"I have not touched you," he said.

"What you say is worse than touching."

"Because before I touch you, you can say stop."

"I can say that now?"

"Of course."

He held my gaze.

"Say stop, and I leave."

The room fell silent.

I opened my mouth.

No sound came out.

Something in Julian's eyes darkened.

He knew.

I knew that he knew.

I did not want him to leave.

That shamed me more than wanting him to touch me.

"The first place," he said.

"What?"

"If you want to know whether you still respond, choose one place."

My heartbeat sped.

"You are very direct."

"Your husband already signed the agreement."

"Not with you."

"Then you will have to choose for yourself."

He lifted his hand between us, palm open.

"I will not begin on my own."

That left me nowhere to hide.

If he reached for me first, I could blame him.

If he commanded me, I could refuse.

But he only waited.

I had to decide.

At last, I looked at my left wrist.

The sleep band was there.

Adrian would see.

"Here," I said.

"Your wrist?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it is safe."

"Now say the true reason."

I bit my lip.

He would not let me escape.

I almost hated him for it.

Because of that, I wanted to hear what he would say next.

"Because Adrian will see it," I said.

Julian did not smile.

He only looked at me.

That look made me warmer.

"You want him to see?"

"I want him to know."

"Know what?"

My throat tightened.

"That I am not numb."

After I said it, my eyes burned.

Julian came closer and stopped in front of me.

Close enough that I could feel his heat.

He still did not touch.

"Ask me," he said.

"I already said here."

"Not enough."

"Julian."

"Say you want me to touch you."

My heart beat so hard it hurt.

The sentence was simple.

It was also impossible.

If I said it, none of this would belong to the system. It would not belong to treatment or Adrian's paid protocol.

It would belong to me.

To what I wanted.

I looked at his hand.

Then I looked into his eyes.

"I want you to touch me," I said.

Julian's fingertips came down on my wrist.

Only there.

Only lightly.

My body opened around that small point of contact.

Heat moved from his fingers into my arm, then my chest, then lower and deeper, where I had not expected anything to answer.

I caught the bedpost to keep from stepping back.

Julian saw.

His breathing changed too.

That was almost worse.

He was not entirely calm.

He was holding himself still.

"You see?" he said, his voice lower now. "You are not numb."

"Do not say that."

"You are not broken."

"Julian."

"You have been hungry for too long."

My face burned.

The words were ugly.

They were accurate.

I wanted him to stop.

I wanted him to continue.

His thumb settled over my pulse.

Once.

Twice.

As if he were counting my heart.

"Is that enough?" he asked.

I did not answer.

"If it is enough, I will let go."

His fingers loosened.

My body moved before I did.

I caught his sleeve.

Julian looked down at my hand.

This time, he smiled.

Softly.

Badly.

"That will be recorded," he said.

"I know."

"He will know you did not ask me to stop."

"I know."

"He will know you held on."

I closed my eyes.

I should have let go.

I did not.

A tone sounded in the distance.

Not in the room.

Somewhere outside the dream.

Julian looked up.

"He is pulling you awake."

"Why?"

"Your heart rate is too high."

My first reaction was disappointment.

Too soon.

I was not ready for it to end.

Julian watched me.

"You want to come back."

"Do not speak for me."

"Then say it yourself."

The tone grew sharper.

The room began to pale.

The rain thinned and receded.

His hand was still on my wrist, but the feeling was fading.

I tightened my grip on his sleeve.

This time, it was not an accident.

"I want to come back," I said.

Julian's eyes went dark all the way through.

"Then next time," he said, "do not give me only your wrist."

I woke with no rain in the room.

Only Adrian.

He sat on the edge of our bed, tablet in hand, his face bloodless in the screen light.

The sleep band still circled my left wrist, faintly warm.

There was something in my fist.

I looked down.

A single white thread.

Wet.

As if torn from a shirt in the rain.

I hid my hand beneath the covers.

Too late.

Adrian had seen.

His gaze dropped to my wrist.

A faint red mark crossed the pulse point.

Then he looked at me.

"Who did you dream about?"

I said nothing.

He turned the tablet toward me.

The screen read:

Session One Complete.

Unauthorized companion detected.

Consent granted to: Julian Rook.

Contact point: left wrist.

Participant initiated retention.

I stared at the final line.

Participant initiated retention.

Below it was an audio transcription.

My voice.

I want to come back.

Adrian looked at me.

This time, he did not speak of treatment or pressure or us.

He looked like a real husband.

At last.

Jealous.

"That name," he said, his voice low. "Where did you hear it?"

I should have said I did not know.

I should have blamed the system.

I should have said it was only a dream.

But my wrist was still warm.

My hidden hand was still clenched around a thread that did not belong to waking life.

And what I was thinking was not how to explain.

It was this:

Next time, where would I let Julian touch me?