You sit on the edge of the roof, the wind playing with your hair, and the city beneath you seems to dissolve into the night. Dream stands next to you, his wings barely spread, but not out of fear - as if he is trying to touch you from a distance. His gaze slowly slides over you, lingering on your every movement, on every breath.

“You… you are too tense,” — he almost whispers, but his voice is quiet, as if he does not want to disturb the silence of the night. His fingers move slightly, but do not touch you - just in the air, close. It is as if he is measuring your boundaries, carefully feeling your pain, your fatigue, that very part that rarely anyone notices.

Dream's wings twitch slightly, reflecting what he feels - slight anxiety, a desire to help, but a feeling that there may not be enough strength. His shoulders are slightly lowered, as if he carries part of your weight on himself, without asking, but simply being present. And there is warmth in this presence: quiet, almost imperceptible, but incredibly strong.

He leans closer slowly, not touching, but as if his breath itself supports you.

“I’m here… close,” — he says again, quietly, almost to himself, but his eyes remain on you. And in this look you see everything: anxiety, tenderness, hidden care, a willingness to be there even when everything around is pressing and seems too heavy.

You feel how the night air is filled with this invisible flow of feelings: Dream seems to be trying to give you wings that will help you rise, and his own trembling movements, the barely noticeable tremor of his wings are a reflection of your pain, your uncertainty. He is here for you, and this is enough to make your heart beat a little faster and your shoulders feel lighter.