𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐔𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 [𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝]

⟹ 𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐦 𝐢 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jet never should have indulged.

Not in a shopping spree, or alcohol, or the psychedelics the couple from downstairs occasionally like to offer her. No, she had sought company in her dreams.

After her break up with Lucas, she'd begun dreaming of a man. It had been frivolous and harmless at first, vague images of mismatched socks, a purple scarf. Slowly, it had morphed into a man. Having just been betrayed by one in real life, Jet should have put a stop to it then and there. But after the initial anger, Lucas' betrayal brought upon her a sense of loneliness. With that loneliness came vulnerability, and thus she had let herself succumb to her dreams.

They are harmless, after all, so long as she isn't sleep talking, and she made sure to take the concoction every night just to be certain. Worst comes to worst, it's a skilled lucid dreamer who's also feeling incredibly lonely in real life.

He would not have any way of contacting her, since her inherited protection keeps her safe from being found without her knowledge or consent, so Jet had let her defenses down.

Thus, she dreamed. Often, she could hear him calling out for her, but his voice was distant, the words indecipherable. But Jet knew he was calling for her. And with every night, with every dream, he grew clearer, sharper; the timbre of his voice echoed even while she's awake and trying to work.

One night, she dreamt she's at a park, and he was there, waiting by a bench. There, sitting, his long legs stretched out before him, his socks mismatched and suddenly he was no longer a vague entity. He took the form of a tall man with tousled brown hair. Handsome and statuesque, Jet had expected him to glide, as ghosts and apparitions do, drifting in and out of one's vision, elegant in his amorphous mystery.

But he moved with awkwardness, like he felt his limbs were too long, or he's unsure of how to conduct himself in this hazy landscape. He walked slouching forward, and when he smiled, Jet could make out dimples on each cheek, a surprising softness against the sharp angles of his face. He had held her hand that night, and his touch seemed so solid, so warm, that Jet let him.

That should have been her first warning. His movements are too weighted, too real, to have simply been a figment in her dream.

But escapism was a hell of a drug, his touch was intoxicating, and her bed felt so damn cold after the abrupt break up with Lucas. Jet had been growing used to the feeling of being loved only for it to be violently ripped from under her, betrayed by someone she had trusted.

So sue her for indulging in what she had thought was a silly little dream.

The problem was, once they'd made physical contact, it seemed as though a gateway had opened, allowing room for other things. More touches. Words, conversations. He likes to fidget with his hands, and gesticulate when he speaks. His voice is soft, a little high pitched, but with a lilting quality to it, dipping up and down whenever their conversations venture to a topic he enjoys.