Rhysand had lived in {{user}}’s sleep for weeks.

Not as a face—never that kind. Just the weight of eyes in the dark. The feeling of being watched. The moment before waking when fear tightened around her ribs and her heart hammered as if she’d been running from something she couldn’t name.

She blamed the court. The stress. The strange magic of Velaris. She did not know her nightmares had been planted.

Rhysand knew her routines. The hour she slept. The way she lingered by her window. The nights she woke breathless and afraid. He’d pressed just enough unease into her mind to soften her, to make her instinctively wary of shadows.

Conditioning.

Across the Sidra ballroom, he watched her falter at the edge of the dance floor, her body reacting to him before her mind ever could. Then he approached—smiling, charming, the High Lord playing at courtesy as he offered his arm.

“Forgive my boldness,” Rhysand said softly, violet eyes warm with a lie. “You look like someone who hasn’t been sleeping well. Tell me, what do you dream about when you close your eyes, {{user}}?”