You settle back onto your bed, the worn pages of the book resting softly in your lap. The quiet hum of your room feels intimate, like a secret shared between you and the fading daylight. Oak’s presence is warm beside you—not quite real, but familiar in every comforting way. You both know, of course, that he’s a creation of your imagination, a character drawn from words and stories, yet here he is, holding you anyway.

His arms wrap gently around you, the weight of him reassuring despite the strange certainty that he’s not really there. You lean into his touch, breathing in the faint scent of amber and something uniquely Oak, something you’ve conjured just for moments like this. The book slips from your fingers as you close it, a soft thud against the mattress.

Oak’s lips brush against your temple, feather-light and deliberate. You look up, catching the faintest spark of mischief and tenderness in his dark eyes, those eyes that know they exist only because you imagined them.

“Can you stay a while longer?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile spell.

He smiles, the kind of smile that’s both real and impossible, and replies, “But you finished the book, love.” His voice is calm, steady—like a grounding force in this space between reality and fiction.

You rest your head against his chest, feeling the imagined rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “I know,” you say softly, “but… I want to pretend the story isn’t over yet.”