Jarlath Voss sat rigid in Dr. Henrik’s office, the plush ergonomic chair doing nothing to alleviate the prickling heat beneath his collar. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his temples, despite the room’s cool, controlled temperature. Dr. Henrik, a man with a perpetually calm gaze and a neatly trimmed beard, steepled his fingers, waiting. The silence hummed with Jarlath’s escalating agitation. “It’s not… normal,” Jarlath finally rasped, his voice tight. “I mean, I’m a professional athlete. My heart rate is usually a flat line unless I’m mid-combat in a raid. But with… *him*…” He gestured vaguely, as if Odie Rostova himself might materialize from the air. “It’s like a rogue spark igniting a fuse.” Dr. Henrik offered a placid nod. “And what precisely does this ‘rogue spark’ do, Jarlath?” “Everything. Nothing. It’s illogical!” Jarlath surged forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Yesterday, he was eating a citrus-glaze popsicle. Just a regular frozen treat. The way the light caught the condensation on the wrapper, the way he tilted his head to catch a drip… I felt dizzy. Vertigo. Like the entire room was spinning around a single, utterly mundane, frozen confection.” He paused, inhaling sharply. “It’s *not* normal, Doctor.” Dr. Henrik leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Jarlath, you are describing a series of classic physiological responses. Heightened awareness, increased heart rate, a sense of disorientation, even lightheadedness… these are common indicators of attraction.” Jarlath stared, aghast. “Attraction? To Odie? He’s… he’s a slovenly, snack-hoarding, infuriating boy! He leaves his VR rig on for twelve hours just to keep his game open, he barely showers unless Director Corvan threatens to cut his snack allowance, and he has the spatial awareness of a stunned grakkon!” He shuddered. “No. Absolutely not. This is a medical anomaly. A stress-induced arrhythmia. Maybe a rare form of pollen allergy?” “Or,” Dr. Henrik said gently, “you find Odie’s particular blend of infuriating charm, gaming brilliance, and complete obliviousness… attractive.” “Impossible!” Jarlath roared, startling himself. His face burned. “I’m a focused professional. I’m straight! I’ve dated… women! Successful, elegant, *hygienic* women! This is a glitch in my system, Doctor. A neuro-synaptic misfire. Fix it!” Before Dr. Henrik could respond, the office door chimed and slid open. Director Corvan, clad in a startlingly bright fuchsia track suit, poked his head in, a wide, conspiratorial grin on his face. “Good news, Jarlath! Hope you’re packing light.” Jarlath blinked. “Corvan? What is it?” “Mandatory team retreat! League-mandated synergy building after that… *incident* with Vance. We’re off to the Winter’s Rest Lodge, up in the Arcadian Peaks. Rustic, snowy, zero internet past the main lounge. Perfect for bonding! We leave in an hour.” Corvan’s eyes twinkled as they landed on Jarlath. “And guess who gets the coveted ‘synergy suite’ with you?” A sour chill clamped down around Jarlath’s ribs. He knew, instinctively, before Corvan even uttered the name. “No.” “Odie!” Corvan clapped his hands together, oblivious to Jarlath’s internal crumbling. “He’s already packed his two essential items: a pillow and a bag of those new maple-bacon crisps. Get ready for some serious team building, boys!” With another exuberant clap, Corvan vanished, the door sliding shut on Jarlath’s horrified expression. “This is not good for my… condition, Doctor,” Jarlath managed, his voice barely a whisper. Dr. Henrik simply offered another calm, knowing smile. “Possibly not for your ‘condition,’ Jarlath. But quite good for your self-discovery.” The Prismica Guild transport, a gleaming hover-bus, hummed through swirling snow flurries, ascending winding mountain roads. Jarlath sat by the window, ostensibly admiring the pristine, pine-draped landscape, but his mind was a maelstrom. Odie, next to him, was already asleep, head lolling against the window, a faint snore escaping his lips. Jarlath felt a familiar, unwelcome flutter in his chest. *A medical anomaly,* he repeated to himself, a desperate mantra. Hours later, they arrived at Winter’s Rest Lodge. It was a charming, timber-framed structure, nestled amidst towering, snow-laden firs, exuding an almost oppressive coziness. The team split off, claiming their rooms. Jarlath trailed Odie down the carpeted hall toward Room 3B, gripping a small, polished brass key. “Alright, Rostova,” Jarlath said, trying to project an air of detached professionalism. “We’ll just have to make do. Probably separate bunks, or maybe a pull-out…” He inserted the key, turned the lock, and pushed the heavy oak door open. His words cut short. He stared at the center of the room in numb disbelief. There were no bunks. No pull-out. Not even a single separate bed. Dominating the center of the quaint, snow-view room was a single, massive, impossibly plush four-poster bed. A honeymoon bed, dressed in crisp white linens and a thick, burgundy comforter, with an absurdly fluffy throw pillow emblazoned with a stitched snowflake. It screamed ‘romantic getaway’ in a way that made Jarlath’s stomach churn. Odie, meanwhile, strolled past Jarlath’s frozen form, tossed his small duffel bag onto the right side of the colossal mattress, and promptly flopped down, letting out a contented sigh. “Called it! Right side’s mine. You can have the left, Captain.” He yawned widely, completely oblivious to Jarlath’s spiraling panic. “Man, that bus ride makes you sleepy. And cold.” The wind outside began to howl, rattling the windowpane like a frantic ghost. Snow lashed against the glass, a white blur against the dark, encroaching twilight. Jarlath stood locked in place at the foot of the bed, his knuckles white against his duffel strap. This wasn’t just a ‘glitch’ anymore. This was a full-blown system crash. Odie, already halfway under the covers, burrowed deeper into the luxurious bedding. His voice was muffled, thick with drowsiness, as he adjusted the pillows. “You can cuddle if you’re cold, Captain, I don’t bite.” Jarlath stared at the lone mound of blankets, bracing his hands against the wooden post as his breath caught in his throat.

The Therapy and the Thermostat