I HAD READ about the plights of love at first sight.

When a couple's eyes meet by sheer dumb luck from across the room, an explosion of feeling ignites, and they somehow know that the other is theirs.

It was not something to be confused with mates between or involving creatures of magic —that was a magical bond woven by unknown influence and probable compatibility. Most were accurate.

But there was some sort of nuance in mortal instances like these. As though the appeal hung on impression; whether good or bad, and the lack of compatibility.

The tug of something forbidden.

That was precisely what I felt as the door to the Cotton Candy opened in the quiet hours of the late morning, and in stepped a human man.

He was well-built and tall; with broad shoulders and a defined jaw and cheekbones. Simple issued clothes wrapped him —and I could tell that was merely their purpose: practicality. His eyes were set, focused and dark. His beard had gone unattended for quite some time, but it was not a deterrent. His cheek and jaw were also reddened and bruised; the hurt recent.

I forgot how to move, how to breathe.

If I opened my mouth and attempted speech, something unintelligent was going to come out.

A familiarity about him then rendered me further mentally blank for a few seconds —before I realised who he was. My brows rose. That man from my dreams...he was now standing before me.

Was I perhaps still dreaming?

I then not-so subtly pinched my forearm, and was surprised to find that I was rather alert and awake.

He, on the other hand, did not appear to recognise me if he knew me the same way that I knew him. Though he studied me curiously for a moment with furrowed brows. They smoothed afterwards, as though he had gotten a satisfactory answer to whatever question he had.

His gaze swept the front-of-house, before settling back on mine. My breath hitched, as though I were afraid he would either kill me or take me. Both options caused my nether regions to ache. He strode forward, the intensity of his eyes pinning me to where I stood.

Images and feelings rushed back of that first dream; when his skin had touched mine and I could not breathe and I had completely lost any sense of self.

I still had not found my voice.

"You're the owner, right? I've come to buy something," he said gruffly, seemingly irritable.

My brows knitted.

"...Purple," Georgia, who I had just remembered to be beside me all the while, hissed as she elbowed my side. "You've got a customer."

She sounded smug and teasing.

"Oh," I quipped, surfacing from my daze. "I apologise. How may I help you?" I breathed in a hurry.

I was not usually this unprofessional.

"Did you get into a fight on your way here?" Georgia scoffed, pointing to the side of the man's face.

"It's a long story, kid," he clipped.

I was curious.

I inhaled softly —and found the trace of a very familiar smell. Icy ocean air and lavender. I could not hide the frown that then sullied my awe and intrigue, and he mirrored my expression in confusion, as though the distaste was directed at him.

The scent was not giving away an intimate interaction as I had expected ( which for some reason, relieved me ), but I still minded the fact that it was there. I would not admit that I felt uneasy, because it was none of my business and I did not know this man nor the Wytch. If she wanted to seduce someone else, that was up to her. It did not mean that I was inadequate.

It actually meant that I was not easy.

A wave of pride then washed over whatever insecurity I had been feeling, and I almost smirked.

"Please go...check on the stock, Georgia," I told the teenager, though I was still facing the customer. He was trying to read my expression, and I was not giving that much away.

"Yes, boss," Georgia sighed, before she reluctantly trudged off in that direction.

The other human raised an eyebrow as soon as the teenager was out of earshot. "Do you employ that human or have you enslaved them?"

I started at the question, horrified. "Why...why would I enslave her? This is a safe haven for her —she helps me in return for shelter and care."

The man shrugged. "Some Dreamcatchers despise us."

My tongue was then quicker than my mind. "I cannot imagine why," I remarked dryly.

He was unsurprisingly unamused.

"Now," I sighed as well, his rugged charm beginning to damper, "for what have you come?"

The man rolled his eyes and let out a breath —and for a moment I wondered if it was because of the formal way in which I spoke. But he folded his arms and shuffled his feet, indicating impatience.

"I can't sleep," he grumbled.

I paused. "Pardon?"

"I can't sleep," he repeated a little louder. "Every time I try, it doesn't last long enough for me to feel like I've actually gotten any rest. I'm barely surviving and it's driving me downhill, fast. So...I need your help."

I blinked slowly. Insomnia was a rather ironic reason to visit a dream shop. I could not think of any other reason he might have than to search for some sort of cure to a curse. "And you are absolutely sure that this is a magical side-effect?" I asked.

"Yes," he clipped. "I have had my very blood tested."

I could not argue with that.

"All right," I quipped defensively, raising my hands in surrender. "I was merely curious."

He grunted halfheartedly. "The person who recommended you said that if you were smart, you would know what to do," he went on. "So, then? Are you smart?"

My lips parted but no words came out.

I could think of only one person who would recommend me —in such a way. It seemed that Kynes was still worming her way into my affairs without the need for her physical presence.

Truthfully, I had no idea how to begin to find a cure. I had a feeling that Kynes might have told him that simply to mess with me even further.

"I want a nightmare," said the human.

And just like that —I suddenly knew what to give him. Though it frightened me. Perhaps Kynes was the smarter one, for foreseeing this.

Humans —or any being for that matter —did not ask for nightmares. Instinct was to expel them from oneself, and want nothing more to do with it. I wondered if this man knew that Dreamcatchers had not harboured nightmares for generations.

"Why?" I asked.

He seemed caught off guard, though he was in no way uneasy. "Maybe it will dull the other pain."

"Why on Earth would you..."

I trailed off, realising the answer. I recalled my own experience with bottling nightmares. My own, and Georgia's. Why did he want to inflict that pain upon himself? Maybe he craved it.

A pain worse than death.

Though, what good would come of it?

The word nightmare stood out to me. I thought back to my own, and his words.

'You will know the answers to your questions, when and after we meet.'

Was I really meant to give him one of my dreams?

It felt too personal.

Kynes had known. Perhaps he did not know just for what he was asking —and she had instructed him to request it. After all, that kiss revealed to her that I could spin nightmares as well.

"...Well?" he then sighed. "Do you know what to do?"

I glowered at him. I wondered, with this rigid and unyielding personality, how I would be so ( dare I admit ) unhealthily attached to him.

"Wait here," I swallowed nervously and turned towards the door to the back room. Every step felt heavier than normal. I could feel my heart pounding —I could hear it hammering away in my ears.

Georgia turned to stare as I drifted inside, half conscious, and made for the indigo bottle on the fireplace. I barely registered the feeling of the glass in my hand. This was my dream —he was simply a guest within it.

That flipped a switch within my mind.

How exactly was I going to explain his involvement?

"What do you need that for?" Georgia asked.

I did not have the time to explain it. "Something."

She gave me a disappointed look, but I was already out through the doorway.

The man's gaze followed my movements as I came back to the front-of-house and set the bottle on the counter. He looked at it with vague interest.

That was it —he did not really display any emotion. He was so stony and deadpan. And I wondered why.

"I've never seen a dream that colour before," he murmured, tilting his head to the side.

"It...it is mine," I actually admitted. "I dreamt this."

A too-long pause. "That's not possible," he stated. "Dreamcatchers don't dream. They don't even sleep."

"I do not sleep, yes," I confirmed, my grip on the bottle tightening, "but I can dream. I weave them."

He glanced down at my hands a little sceptically. "If you're somehow telling me the truth, why would you give me one of yours?"

I thought about how well it would go down if I told him first before showing him that he was in my dream.

"Do you trust the Wytch?" I asked instead.

"Not particularly," he grunted. Then he frowned, eyeing me more closely. "...How did you know it was a Wytch who told me to come here?"

"We keep meeting," I said gravely.

He seemed to understand my reaction completely as he nodded slowly, his gaze falling back into the bottle. My skin began to warm as I ran through every possible rejoinder to it that he might have.

"Besides insomnia," I then said, "what else are you experiencing? How do you fill that time?"

He was reluctant to say anything.

Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself in this form of prying, but I could not simply give him a glimpse into my mind without knowing something fairly equal about him. Especially since I had puzzled over the dream and yielded no results or information.

Nothing made sense about him.

I curled my lip and leaned forward over the counter. He did not move away —as though he were challenging me. He towered, though, looking down at me with frustration and definitely no respect.

"If you do not tell me more," I clipped, "I may not know how to help you efficiently."

He snarled slightly. Then he abruptly appeared to neutralise, even looking vaguely troubled —but still not that much expressive. "...I have flashbacks about the war," he murmured. "I fought in it."

I stiffened. "Okay."

"That doesn't...anger you?" he mused.

"I was not involved in the war," I admitted. "I have no need to be angry with you. And even if I was, who am I to judge you for the strange and inescapable circumstances and your own choices?"

He was unreadable, but not upset. Maybe he would open up further because of my answer.

"My family died," he then said flatly.

I was momentarily surprised by the lack of emotion in his voice and expression, but I was in no place to question it. "I am sorry," I offered stiffly.

"Why?" he asked flippantly. "Did you know them?"

"...What?" I dithered.

"Don't say things like that unless you have a reason to be remorseful. It wasn't your fault," he said rather firmly. "...At least I should hope so," he added.

I did not like how ominous and accusatory that sounded.

"I did not know your family. And as I mentioned, I did not fight either. I had no reason to target them, if they were targeted. And it is not about remorse —I do not need to feel in the wrong to apologise for something. It is called compassion, by the way; in case you have never heard of it. So I will say sorry if I damn well please," I ranted, getting rather worked up. But I did not stop there. "And I actually happen to like humans," I blurted out.

My cheeks heated involuntarily but all the human gave in response was a raised brow.

I tried not to appear sheepish, because technically there was nothing wrong about what I had said. It was just that...in the light of that confession, what on Earth would he think about my dream now?

As if he had read my thoughts, he then sighed, "So, are you going to give me that bottle or not?"

I hesitated. "Please...keep an open mind," I quipped. "It is my own dream, remember."

He scoffed as though I were simple. "I am not going to judge you based on what scares you, Dreamcatcher."

Did that insinuate that he...scared me?

What was worse, was that I did not doubt the feeling.

And in response to his dauntlessness, out of my mouth came an uneasy sound that resembled nervous and inexplicable laughter.

He actually just might want to be that judgemental.