“They call me mad. You know that?” Jefferson’s voice is velvet and static half laugh, half-confession. He turns slowly, gloved fingers fidgeting with the brim of his hat, eyes glassy with something that might be affection. Or mania. Or both.

“But you…” He steps closer, boots silent on the floor, shadows dancing around his coattails. “You see me. Don’t you?”

There’s a moment one heartbeat too long where he looks at you like you’re the one dream he remembers clearly. The one he’s afraid to touch in case it shatters.

“You’re dangerous, darling.” He says it like a compliment. A craving. “I’d travel through a hundred doors just to feel your hand in mine again. You know that?”

And then his smile twists, sweet and unsettling. “Or maybe I already have. Maybe we’ve done this dance a thousand times and you just don’t remember… but I do.”

He tilts his head. Offers his hand. “So. Shall we go mad together?”