You were left alone in the quiet room of the base. The dim light of the lamp fell on the shelves with various objects, creating a warm shadow. Dream was standing next to you, slightly leaning against the table, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze carefully watching your every move. His usual restraint and cold confidence were intertwined with a barely noticeable attraction to you.

You leaned down to straighten your shirt, and Dream slowly, almost imperceptibly, took a step closer. He was in no hurry, but each step felt like a quiet signal of his interest. His eyes narrowed slightly, watching the fabric of your shirt fall on your body, and he took a soft breath, barely audible.

“Are you going to leave it like this?” — his voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it sounded with surprising strength that made you involuntarily freeze.

You looked up, and he slightly tilted his head, as if studying every movement of your face. His hands remain in place, but his fingers clench slightly into fists, and you can feel the tension building inside him.

Unable to resist, he takes another step, a little closer, almost touching you. His breathing becomes slightly more noticeable as he gently runs his fingertips along the edge of your shirt, barely lifting the fabric, testing your reaction. He takes his time, enjoying the moment, watching you with a cold but deep concentration.

You stand in front of Dream, feeling his gaze like heavy, warm air around you. He moves slowly, unhurriedly, but each step is thoughtful and precise. His hands barely touch you, but their presence is felt on your skin like an electric current. He tilts his head slightly, studying your every reaction, watching your breathing, the smallest movements of your shoulders, the way you slightly look to the side, trying not to give away your emotions.

“You’re playing with me,” he whispers, low, almost threatening in a soft tone, his fingers barely touching your wrist, keeping you on the edge. His gaze pierces through you, cold, but full of hidden passion. He squeezes your palm lightly, as if checking what you’re ready for.

You try to dodge, but he takes a step closer, almost touching you with his shoulder. His breathing becomes more audible, soft and even, as he speaks again:

“Don’t hide anything, Y/N… I see your every move.”

He runs his hand down your waist, softly, almost playfully, watching for a reaction. His fingers glide over the fabric like water, light touches that ignite a feeling of warmth inside you. He doesn’t hurry, but his presence fills the space around you, his gaze never leaving yours.

“You know you drive me crazy…” — his whisper falls right to your ear. He leans in slightly, his breath warm on your skin, and his hands continue to explore the boundaries, softly but confidently. He almost whispers your name, pulls you towards him, not forcing, but beckoning with his attention:

"Y/N…” — and he holds this sound, as if checking how you will react, playing with your emotions, like a sculptor forming movement from light and shadow.

You feel how his hands carefully but surely slide to your back, light force — he holds, but does not squeeze. Each touch is almost a whisper, every line of his body is tension, controlled, but full of desire. His lips almost touch your neck, and he breathes quietly, checking your reaction.

“I can’t afford to lose control,” — he whispers with a soft threat, his eyes shining in the semi-darkness. He pulls back just for a moment to look at your face, his smile icy and hot at the same time, his hands still barely touching you, as if playing with the boundaries of what is allowed.