That night, the dream slid over Aiden like silk warmed by skin—slow, rich, and utterly consuming.
He stood in a field of silver grass that moved like breath, bathed in moonlight that caressed everything it touched. Above, the stars shimmered like broken glass suspended in velvet, and the air was thick with hush, as if the world itself waited.
But soon heat pressed against Aiden's skin, humid and pulsing, as if the air itself was breathing.
He stood barefoot on old wood, fog curling around his ankles like fingers.
A light flickered ahead—warm, red-gold. He turned.
Connie.
She leaned against a doorway, half in shadow. Her damp hair clung to her skin, lips parted as if she'd just whispered something into the silence. Her shirt clung to her like a second skin, rain-soaked and almost translucent.
"You still dream about me," she murmured, stepping forward. Barefoot. Eyes glinting.
"Don't lie."
She reached him, fingers tracing the side of his jaw, feather-light.
Her touch sent a jolt straight through his core.
"I used to watch you sleep like this," she whispered. "Mouth slightly open. Chest rising slowly."
Her hand slid down his neck to his collarbone.
"You always looked like you were dreaming of me."
He tried to speak, but the words were slow, thick.
The air felt… syrupy.
Then she emerged.
Rosalie.
Mist clung to her like a memory. Her golden hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the light like spun flame. She wore only a slip of translucent fabric—no shoes, no ornaments—just the sheen of moonlight on bare skin. The cloth moved with her like it loved her, draping her curves and whispering across her thighs with every step.
Her beauty was sharper, cleaner—like moonlight on polished stone. She didn't say anything at first. Just stood there barefoot in the silver glow, eyes unreadable.
But when she moved—God, it was grace.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
Only feel.
The hum of her presence inside his chest.
The slow, uncoiling heat in his belly.
The sudden ache of want so sharp it felt like grief.
Connie whispered against his ear, "You used to beg for me…" kissing him.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. Her body pressed flush to his soft curves meeting muscle, the heat between them rising like a fever. He trailed his hands down her spine, drawing her tighter, feeling the shiver that traveled through her.
The kiss deepened. But his focus was not on that, it was on rosalie.
Rosalie pressed her palm to his chest, eyes smoldering now. "You don't have to beg anymore."
She walked toward him with eyes that devoured—molten gold, bright with hunger and something else, something wounded. Her lips parted as if to say his name, though no sound came. She didn't need to speak. He heard her in every nerve.
When she reached him, her fingers brushed his chest, light as breath. And he broke. The heat of her touch sank into him like ink into paper. His hands found her waist, small and perfect, and she melted into him with the certainty of someone who had waited lifetimes for this.
Her mouth found his. Feather-light. Then again, firmer. Open. Slow.
Their hands moved in unison—one warm, one cool—tracing the lines of his stomach, his ribs, his spine. He couldn't breathe. He didn't want to.
"I love him," Connie said, voice fragile now. "I burned for him."
"I died to feel again," Rosalie murmured.
Their lips nearly met at the corner of his mouth—then everything froze.
Thunder cracked.
.
Her breath trembled into his mouth, and he swallowed it.
She was everywhere—on his skin, in his blood, behind his eyes. There was nothing else. Nothing outside this touch. This need.
But the dream began to shift.
The stars faded, one by one.
The moon wept red.
Rosalie's body tensed. Her lips lingered on his, then pulled away with a trembling sigh.
A sound rose—low and ancient, like something too big for language—and the silver grass withered beneath their feet.
She clutched his face with both hands, her gaze wide and frantic.
"I shouldn't be here," she whispered, voice breaking like glass in water. "You shouldn't want me."
"But I do," he rasped. His throat was dry. His heart felt bare.
A shadow moved behind her—enormous, soundless, swallowing the horizon.
She leaned in close, mouth brushing his ear, voice like snow on fire: "Then you'll burn."
And she vanished.
The field turned to ash.
Aiden stood alone, hands still reaching for a body that had felt more real than breath.
But when he opened his eyes, it wasn't Rosalie's face above him.
It wasn't Connie's either.
Just his ceiling fan. Still spinning. Still silent.
His chest rose and fell, damp with sweat. Breath short.
Phone buzzed on the nightstand.
6:52 a.m.
No messages.
No flames.
Just morning light began to creep across the room like it didn't know the kind of dreams that happened in the dark.