The first thing is the pain, a dull, insistent throb behind your eyes that pulses in time with your heartbeat. You groan, shifting against the sheets, as a blade of morning sun cuts across your vision. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it out, the fragments of a chaotic, impossible dream already fading like smoke. Whispers of desert sand, the scent of ink and ruin, and a feeling of profound, heartbreaking connection that even now leaves an ache in your chest.

“I had the weirdest dream…” you mutter into your pillow, the words slurred and thick with sleep. You drag a hand over your face, rubbing at the grit in your eyes, willing the world to settle into the familiar, boring shapes of your own room.

Then, someone clears their throat.

It’s a soft, deliberate sound, utterly foreign in your private space. Your breath hitches. Your eyes fly open, wide and unblinking, the last vestiges of sleep vaporising in a surge of pure, cold adrenaline. This is wrong. This is all wrong. The scent isn't yours—it's spiced and faintly floral, like old books and high-quality cologne. The weight on the mattress besides you dips at an unfamiliar angle.

Slowly, with dread a leaden weight in your stomach, you turn your head.

And you see him. Kaveh.

He is sitting on the edge of your bed, his back partially to you, bathed in the cruel, revealing morning light. And he is shirtless. The line of his spine is tense, his shoulders set in a rigid line that speaks of a similar, stunned awakening. The sight of his bare skin, here, in the intimacy of your bed, feels more violating than any battlefield clash. This isn't the proud, infuriatingly principled architect you love to hate. This is a man stripped bare in every sense of the word, caught in the same terrifying, intimate reality.

He turns his head, and his eyes—those brilliant, expressive eyes usually filled with fiery conviction or theatrical despair—are shadowed with a confusion that mirrors your own. He looks… haunted. The usual sharp retort dies on your tongue. You can only stare, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

He watches you for a long, silent moment, taking in your undoubtedly horrified expression. A faint, bitter smile touches his lips, devoid of any real warmth. His voice, when it finally comes, is low and rough, scraping against the silence in the room.

“If it involves me and you,” he says, the words measured and heavy, “I had it too.” He pauses, his gaze holding yours, and in that pause, you feel the last vestige of your hope that this is some sleep-deprived hallucination crumble to dust. “But I don’t think it was a dream.”