The nights had turned bitter, snow falling in slow, quiet waves over the pale grass. The warmth of your blankets shielded you from the cold, and as always, you found yourself lost in another world—buried in the pages of a book that had become far too familiar.

He was always there. Jace.

The man written in strokes of longing and mystery. Each night, your eyes lingered on his name, memorizing his world as though doing so might bring him closer to yours.

"I wish he was my man..." The words escaped in a soft breath. You sighed and moved to close the book.

But the air shifted.

The silence changed—grew full, alert. The hairs on the back of your neck stirred before you understood why.

Something was here.

You sat up slowly. The book slid from your hands. And in the dim lamplight, you saw him.

Tall. Still. Real.

Standing near the window, cloaked in the silver of moonlight and snow. His coat, worn and heavy, held the scent of wind and woodsmoke. His eyes—those exact pale eyes you knew too well—were fixed on you, unwavering.

"Jace...?"

He stepped forward, gaze sharp, every movement purposeful.

“You spoke my name,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like a secret finally shared. “I heard you.”

There was a quiet grace in how he moved, like a man who had seen many winters, but bore them with patience and strength. He studied your world—the books, the lamp, the quiet comfort of the room—with a puzzled fascination.

“This place... it is nothing like my own,” he said. “No steel. No fire. Yet somehow, it led me to you.”

He reached for the book at the foot of your bed, running his gloved fingers gently across the cover. His brow furrowed—not in fear, but in wonder.

“I remember nothing beyond the ink,” he murmured. “Only a feeling. That I had to find you.”

He turned to face you fully now, his expression softer, almost reverent.

“If fate is what brought me here, then I will not question it. Only this I know—your voice called me from the dark. And now... I do not wish to return.”

He knelt—not dramatically, but naturally, as though it was the only proper way to meet you at eye level.

“If I am but a figment,” he said, “then let me be yours alone. If I am real… then let this be the beginning.”

The wind outside howled softly, but inside, everything stilled. He remained there—this man of pages and dreams, real as breath, gazing at you not as a stranger, but as though he had loved you from the very first word.