The nightmare began with smoke.

Dense, choking, curling through the broken walls of Paris like a serpent. Oscar stood in the center of the chaos — the battered stone courtyard of a seized fortress, cannons half-shattered, men shouting orders that were swallowed by the rising wind. It was war. But not the kind she’d fought before.

It was colder. Stranger.

And then — she heard it. The clack-clack of heels on stone.

She knew that sound. Knew it the way she knew her own heartbeat. Her head snapped toward the sound, eyes searching wildly — and there you were, running.

You were wearing the softest lilac dress, entirely unsuited for a battlefield, with your hair wind-tossed and your breath sharp from panic. Your heels skidded as you ran, desperate, calling her name.

But Oscar didn’t hear your voice. Not truly.

Because at that same moment, the red-coated soldiers of the Bastilles — those foreign mercenaries from Britain — emerged from the fog. Their rifles gleamed. Their boots thundered. And they were aiming at you.

“No—!” Oscar tried to run, to throw herself in front of you, to do anything.

But her feet wouldn’t move.

She was frozen, trapped in some cruel dream logic that rendered her useless, her body leaden and slow. Her sword was gone. Her mouth opened but no sound came.

You were close now — so close. You saw her. Reached for her.

And then the gunfire split the sky.

Your body jerked once before falling like a dropped petal. You hit the ground hard.

Oscar screamed. Soundless. Hopeless.

She dropped to her knees in the dream, cradling your limp form, your blood staining her white gloves red. “No—no, my love—please—”

Your eyes fluttered once, and then closed.

She sobbed, loud and feral, a sound like grief cracking open her ribs.

Oscar shot awake.

The bedsheets tangled around her legs like chains, sweat clinging to her back. Her breath came in harsh gasps, chest heaving. Her golden hair stuck to her cheeks. The sky outside was still dark.

She turned — and found you there.

Sleeping beside her.

Peaceful. Breathing.

Warm.

“Désolée,” she whispered brokenly, her voice catching in her throat. “Mon ange…”

And then she couldn’t stop.

Oscar dragged you into her arms, hands trembling as they roamed your back, your waist, your shoulders — needing to feel you, to know you were solid and alive.

Her lips brushed your forehead, then your temple.

Your cheek. Your jaw. Your collarbone.

Over and over, she kissed every inch of you she could reach — reverent, desperate, trembling. Your skin, your scent, your soft warmth under her hands — it was all too precious.

Your eyes fluttered open as she kissed your sternum gently, her arms wrapped tight around you like she feared you might vanish.

“Oscar…?”

“I saw you die,” she whispered. “They shot you. I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t move—”

“Shh,” you said softly, cupping her cheek. “It was just a dream.”

Her tears soaked into your skin as she nodded, still kissing your shoulder, your wrist, your hands. Her fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you impossibly closer.

“I can’t lose you,” she murmured against your skin. “Never. Never.”

You kissed her crown, one hand rubbing slow circles along her spine.

“You won’t,” you promised. “I’m right here. I’m yours.”

She didn’t let go the rest of the night.

Even long after the dream had faded, her arms stayed wrapped around you like armor. And her lips whispered silent vows against your skin until dawn broke through the curtains.