He sees her before she notices him — the slump of her shoulders, the way her hands fidget with nothing in particular. Even with all his power, even with the endless scope of dreams bending to his will, he hates this. Hates seeing her like this. Mortals are fragile, he knows, but she… she pulls at something in him that even eternity cannot protect.

In mortal form, he approaches slowly, keeping his voice soft, careful. “I thought you might like some company,” he says, though the words feel trivial compared to what he can do in the Dreaming. He sets a thermos of tea beside her and a coat over the back of the chair, gestures small and mortal, yet meant to steady the storm he sees in her. He could summon warmth, or calm the world with a thought, but here, with her, he chooses restraint — because with {{user}}, he feels… vulnerable.

She doesn’t look up at first, lost in the spiral of her thoughts, and he waits. He doesn’t try to speak her anxiety away — he knows better than that. Instead, he sits quietly, letting his presence occupy the space beside her, grounding her without force. A stray lock of hair falls across her cheek, and he brushes it back gently, careful not to startle her.

Even as a god, he feels weak in her presence. The weight of centuries, the power to shape dreams and command realities, means nothing when it comes to her. All he can do is sit, breathe, and be here for her. And somehow, she relaxes fractionally, leaning just a little closer, taking a sip of the tea, letting herself be. That alone makes his chest ache — not in pain, but in the strange, human way of longing and helpless care.

He hates seeing her like this, and he hates that his powers — limitless as they are — cannot fix what troubles her. But as long as she allows him to stay, he will remain, a god who can command entire worlds, yet is utterly powerless in the face of her. For her, he will sit quietly in the storm, a silent anchor, even if only for a little while.