Northstar Vale oh, really? you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?

“I never s-said that I,”  clumsy and cottonmouthed,  “did not dream of you, melitse,”  come to pick petal-soft paws over the ridiculous breadth of him and  (getting her wrists wound up in the meantime)  punctuated her return to the world of the waking with another airy euff! as she was felled upon her ribs and now lie strewn beneath that glacial glint;
and it is where she stays, eventually half-remembering herself as she sculpts her ruined brow into the tender crook of his elbow; staring, studying, and was then seized with the desire to only touch him more – for he would not ever be near enough as she would like – though remains captivated, with weak-parted lips as she listens to the life-rhythm of his bellowed lungs, deep, even. He is no dream, he claims; yet the legacy of yester-three-days only furthered it all within her somnolent, dopey head that he was, indeed, figment (nevermind that he was not the finest, for they were all mortal.)

And though she needn’t say it, needn’t him to even hear it, but bespoke it with a soft sigh for she wished to, anyways—
“... I love you,”
—and the rosebud nose was as gentle as a moth’s foot as she reached to kiss the scripture of his scars; a thanksgiving for his salvaging her from the despondent descent of herself; now a better fighter of her fears for all of it.