"You’ve got your robe on."
"Yes, I do." She pauses, her eyes flicker away from watching his eyes watch her mouth. "I was going to take a bath."
"Then how is it we have the pleasure of meeting again?" He purrs, and she wishes his eyes were less yellow so his feline qualities didn’t seem so prominent, nor quite so alluring. He approaches her silkily, closing the space between them, and she steps back, feeling for her bedroom wall, but falling into emptiness.
His arms extend and clasp her gently, bringing her up to an embrace. His face tilts to hers, as it used to, and she feels his hot breath close to her, his greedy eyes devouring the pale flesh of her ethereal face.
"Perhaps you should wake up." He whispers, and she laughs humourlessly.
"Perhaps… perhaps," Her face falls with the knowledge of stalking another false reality, a dream of foolish longing. She leads his hand to her face, clinging to her fleeting moments with him, and relishes the burning warmth of his touch on her icy cheek, then the smell of spices on his clothes and salt in his hair, the glint of his eye that makes it impossible that his presence might be false or fanciful, his whole, unyielding self so undeniably near and tangible.
Her lips curl sadly and she grips the fabric of his robes, desperate, tragic, convinced of its realness for a heartbeat more. His smile extends the corner of his mouth effortlessly, awaiting her instruction to proceed, and she can do nothing in his arms but deny him, clutch at the thick air around them until she resolves to push his face away from hers, jagged and impassioned. She can do nothing but watch him break apart, like paper in water, inky hair dripping and fading, blackening his memory, and rescue herself back to wakefulness.