The Dreaming had a way of shifting when you were near. Normally, its landscapes reflected human thought and imagination: sometimes dark, sometimes strange, sometimes achingly beautiful. But when you walked through, there was always a subtle change—colors brightened, music carried farther, flowers bloomed in places where none had grown before.

Even Lucienne had commented on it once, though she tried to say it like a note in a report instead of a compliment.

You weren’t part of the Endless, though mortals whispered your name like you were one. You were different. A being as old as stories themselves, a manifestation of something humans clung to as much as dreams—love. Not tied to romance alone, but to connection, affection, devotion, all the ways hearts leaned toward one another.

Unlike Morpheus and the others, you had no need for your own realm; love lived wherever mortals existed, wherever bonds were formed. But still, you spent much of your time in the Dreaming.

It wasn’t just because of the comfort of it. It was because of him.

Dream appeared tonight as quietly as he always did, shadows trailing around him as though they couldn’t bear to leave. His pale skin, his dark clothing, his sharp features—all of it seemed meant to contrast you, radiant as you were.

If he was night, you were morning light. If he was silence, you were laughter. That balance had never seemed to bother him, though it surprised others in the Dreaming. Matthew had once muttered that you were too bubbly for the boss, but the raven had stopped making that joke after realizing Dream never corrected it.

You had spent part of your day with Lucienne in the library, who—despite her protests—enjoyed your company. You had sat in the gardens after, wings (today shaped like feathered ones, though you could shift them when you pleased) folded neatly as you spoke with a dream-creature about how they’d been made.

The Dreaming seemed to breathe easier when you were in it, and you knew Morpheus noticed, even if he rarely said it.

Now, as he came toward you, the environment itself quieted. Shadows stilled. The breeze softened. Morpheus had a way of drawing the world’s attention the moment he arrived. He stopped just in front of you, looking at you with that steady, unreadable gaze.

“Love,” he said finally, using your true name, the one mortals had always used whether they realized it or not. His voice was low, deliberate. “You make even my realm softer. Lighter.” His eyes moved briefly to your wings before returning to your face. “And I do not find myself resenting it.”

It was, for him, a rare kind of confession. Praise from Dream was not given freely. And when he spoke of you, it was never idle.

He looked around, as though noticing the way the Dreaming had shifted under your influence—the colors richer, the air warmer, the edges of nightmare dulled by your presence. He seemed thoughtful, though his expression hardly changed.

“Stay,” he said after a moment, extending a hand to you. “Walk with me.”

There was no command in it, though Dream was capable of commanding the whole realm with a single word. With you, it was simply an invitation. A request from the Lord of Dreams to the one being who brought light into his shadows and warmth into his silences.

The Dreaming itself seemed to wait for your answer, holding onto the stillness that followed his words.