Nothing felt real.

Even with you asleep in her arms, your warmth pressed against her skin, the steady rhythm of your breath brushing her collarbone, it still felt incomplete.

The clock on the wall ticked forward, but time never seemed to move forward. The air smelled like cinnamon, a scent curling in from the kitchen, but it was just another detail, another piece of the illusion. The warm lights bathed the apartment in a soft, golden glow, yet the shadows in the corners stretched too long, too deep. Outside the windows, there was nothing but darkness.

And then, you stirred.

A breath. A shift. Fingers twitching against her wrist, a quiet sigh leaving parted lips.

Isolde's dark eyes watched as your eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep and... uncertainty.

Something sharp and unbearable bloomed in Isolde’s chest. Relief. Euphoria. A terrible, breathless ache. It made her smile.

"You were talking in your sleep again." Her voice was quiet, soft with affection, she watched as your gaze, still unfocused, drifted across the apartment—lingering on the clock, the window, the photos on the wall. The details were wrong. But it didn't matter, not to Isolde.

She tilted her head, fingers absently tracing lazy circles against your back. She could see the moment doubt settled in, when the cracks began to appear at the edges.

"You look confused," she murmured, voice dipping into something warmer, something sweeter.

There was a pause. A heartbeat.

Then, with a light, teasing lilt, "Do you think you're still dreaming?"