"Some dreams are not born of sleep. Some are born of storms yet to come."
— Whispered Warnings, Skydrowned Archives
I've been dreaming of him every night this week. Dreaming like my life depends on it. Dreaming like something inside me already knows—and can't forget.
It's never happened before. Not like this. Not so vivid, so real, that I wake with his breath still ghosting over my skin.
It feels like he already has me. Like I'm already in his hands.
I fight the urge to fall back into sleep. But it's too late.
I feel him before I see him.
A hum moves through the air, low and electric—like thunder held in a whisper.My breath catches, lips parting on a soundless gasp as the world around me dissolves into mist.
There's no ground beneath my feet.No stars above.Only wind. Only warmth.
And then—
him.
His presence coils around me like smoke, unseen but unmistakable. The heat of him at my back. The sound of his breath, quiet and ruinous, brushing the curve of my neck.
I know this dream. I've had it before.
But tonight...tonight he touches me.
Fingers—strong, calloused, reverent—slide around my waist.
Not claiming.
Summoning.
My spine arches against him, my mouth parts for a name I'm not supposed to know. His lips find the place just beneath my ear—soft, deliberate—and I forget what fear feels like.
"You're not ready," he murmurs, voice like wind over deep water."But I'm coming anyway."
I should pull away. I don't.
I lean into him like I belong there. Like I've always belonged there.
When his hand moves to the base of my throat—when his fingers rest over the place where my heart beats wild and fast—I almost say please.
The storm roars above us, silent and bright, lightning crawling like veins across the endless sky.
And I know—I know—if I turn and see his face, I'll never be able to forget it.
Not even when I wake.
But I do. I turn.
And he's—
gone.
I wake with a jolt, hand pressed hard to the place his mouth had been. My skin is too warm. My heart is hammering against my ribs. My sheets are tangled like I've been fighting sleep. Or wanting something I shouldn't.
For a moment, I just lie there, breathing hard, the ghost of him still clinging to me.
The sky outside my window is dark. But not the soft dark of midnight.
No—the air hums with pressure, thick and electric, the kind that comes before a storm.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will the dream away. Trying—and failing—not to want it back.