You’d heard about Love and Deepspace in passing—something people mentioned half-jokingly, like it wasn’t supposed to stick. You downloaded it out of boredom, telling yourself you’d delete it in a day.

You didn’t.

You got addicted, fast, and not to the game itself. To Zayne. The way his voice stayed calm no matter what. The way he looked at you like you were something steady, something worth anchoring to. It was embarrassing how often you thought about him when the app wasn’t even open.

You mentioned it to a friend once, laughing nervously. “I think I’m obsessed with this character.”

They didn’t laugh back. They hesitated. Their eyes flicked away for just a second too long. “…Yeah,” they said. “That happens.”

The tone followed you home like a shadow.

That night, you sigh and fall back onto your bed, staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn. You leave your phone face-down on the nightstand and let sleep take you.

The dream feels wrong immediately.

You’re in your room. Your real room. Same curtains, same faint hum of the house settling. The bed dips beside you, and when you turn your head, Zayne is there—sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.

“You’re late,” he says softly, like he’s been waiting.

Your breath catches. “This is a dream.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “If that makes you feel safer.”

You try to move. You can. Too easily. Your heart pounds. “How are you here?”

“I’ve been here,” he answers. “You just noticed.”

His hand brushes the blanket near yours—not touching you, but close enough that the space feels charged. “Go back to sleep, {{user}}.”

When you wake, it’s with a sharp inhale, your room washed in early morning light. Your body feels heavy, like you didn’t rest at all.

Then you notice it.

The mattress beside you dips. The sheets are creased, warm, like someone just stood up. Your pillow has been nudged out of place.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. A trick of sleep. You sit up, rub your eyes, and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

You don’t see him.

You don’t hear him.

But down the hall, something shifts—slow, deliberate, like footsteps carefully placed to avoid being heard.