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Which is exactly what hits me when I walk in and drop my keys on the stone countertop. The foyer echoes. The lights turn on automatically, casting their custom-programmed glow on leather and chrome and glass. It all looks exactly like the photos, which is another way of saying it feels about as lived-in as a display model.

I toss my wallet and phone onto a tray and wander toward the back, where the entire wall is glass. The backyard view has a swimming pool with a waterfall and tons of trees for privacy.

Roni’s place always smells like lavender and vanilla. She has that ancient blue couch that swallows you whole, and every surface is scattered with mugs and paperbacks and little pieces of her—fucking perfect.

I think about her laugh, the way she curls her legs up to her chest, and fantasize about what it would be like if she lived here, in my too-big, too-perfect house. I imagine her leaving a trail of sweaters, her scent clinging to the sheets, her toothbrush parked next to mine.

I take a long pull of beer and imagine life with Roni living here with me. I picture it all the time.

When I finally crash on the bed, the sheets are cold, and I stare at the ceiling for a while, willing myself not to text her. Not to do something stupid like tell her what’s really in my head.

But then I drift, and the dream comes, just like it has every night for years.

It’s always the same. I’m in the club, but it’s empty, except for her. She’s behind the bar, pouring drinks, wearing a little black dress that looks like her curvy body was poured into. But in the dream, she’s not shy. She leans over the bar, lips red, and crooks her finger. I go to her like I’m on a string, and the second I get close, she grabs my tie and pulls me down until our mouths crash.

Her sweet, tangy taste flows through me as her hands fist in my hair. She drags her nails down my scalp while making these desperate little noises that drive me crazy. I grip her hips and lift her onto the bar, pushing her skirt up, feeling her legs wrap around me. She’s so warm, and the smell of her fills my head until I’m drunk on it.

Her hands pull me closer, and she unbuttons my shirt before dragging her fingers over my skin. She grinds against me, shameless, and I’m so fucking hard it hurts.

“Tell me,” she whispers, biting my ear. “Tell me what you want.”

I want everything. I want her in my bed, in my house, in my life, forever. But I can’t say it. I never say it.

Instead, I lift her off the bar and carry her to a booth, laying her down and kissing every inch of her I can reach. She’s so soft, and she tastes like heaven, and when I finally slide inside her, she arches up and moans my name.

“Nathan,” she says, voice rough and low, and I feel it everywhere, down to my bones.

I wake up with my hand clenching the sheets, sweating and hard and furious at myself for being such a goddamn coward.

I stare at the ceiling and wonder if this is what purgatory feels like. Close enough to touch, but never quite there.

Maybe after the auction, I’ll grow a set of balls and make a move.

But I know, clear as day, that I can’t keep living like this. I’m going to have to risk it all—her friendship, my heart, everything—because the idea of going another six years with nothing but the taste of her in my dreams is enough to drive any man insane.

I get up, yank the shower on as cold as it’ll go, and stand under it until my skin is numb and my thoughts are clear.

Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow, or the day after. But soon.

I’m going to make her mine.