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Yae Miko was not someone who let anything interrupt her ten hours of sleep. It was sacred. As consistent as the sunrise and just as important. She was the kind of woman who believed that the key to productivity was proper rest—and black coffee, of course, but mostly sleep.
Which is why she was annoyed when she woke up in the middle of it.
Something was wrong.
The first thing she noticed was the warmth. Her arms were wrapped around something soft, warm, and breathing. That wasn’t right. Her usual bedtime companion was a worn fox plushie she’d had since college—a gift from an old friend she refused to part with. But this... this was not that.
Her second thought hit like a brick to the face.
Why am I big spooning a naked, dark-haired woman?
Her eyes blinked open, slowly adjusting to the soft glow of early morning light seeping through the curtains. She didn’t dare move at first. Her cheek rested against what felt like someone’s shoulder, damp with sweat and the faint scent of lavender shampoo. Her heart began to race.
This was not normal.
She peeked over the woman’s shoulder, strands of dark purple hair spilling across a bare back, the smooth curve of it outlined beneath Miko’s arm. Her skin was flawless, her frame both graceful and solid in her arms—like something sculpted out of moonlight and midnight. The woman let out a soft sigh and snuggled in deeper.
Miko froze.
She didn’t do this. She would remember doing this. The last thing she recalled was getting home late from her office, nuking a microwave meal, and faceplanting into bed after editing three long chapters of a borderline trashy romance novel. She hadn't even bothered changing out of her blouse. Her personal life had been a dry wasteland for years now.
She hadn't dated in what felt like forever. Her last real relationship had ended so long ago it barely felt real anymore. After that, she kept herself buried in work. Romance became something that happened to other people. Only to be found in the light novels she edits for a living.
Yet here she was. Holding a literal goddess in her bed. Naked.
"Mmm, you're warm," the woman murmured.
Miko held her breath, but the woman drifted back into a deep slumber. She eventually eased out of the embrace, heart thudding in her chest, and sat at the edge of the bed. The woman didn’t stir.
Miko ran a hand through her hair, staring at the floor, her mind spinning, confused and hazy. Her fingers trembled. Her breath shallow. She risked another glance at the sleeping woman—at her long, dark purple hair splayed across the pillow, her serene expression, like nothing in the world could touch her.
Who was she?
And why did this feel so real?
They ate breakfast together.
The kitchen was bathed in golden light, warm and gentle. Miko spooned cereal into her mouth mechanically, barely tasting it. The woman across from her, however, was radiant. Her long, dark purple hair had dried into loose waves. She wore one of Miko’s old oversized shirts, and nothing else, legs crossed on the stool like she belonged here.
She ate sweet yogurt from a little ceramic bowl, licking the spoon slowly. Her purple eyes met Miko’s across the table and something fluttered in Miko’s chest.
Everything still felt hazy.
The light was too soft. The colors too pale. Her cereal was blander than it should be. But the woman—she looked like a goddess. And she was staring at Miko like they shared a hundred lifetimes already.
Gods, it's been so long since someone looked at me like that, Miko thought.
She twirled her spoon in the cereal, watching it clink softly against the bowl. Better to play around with her food than to try and continue to eat the bland cereal.
How many mornings have I had like this? Just me, my inbox, and the manuscripts I have to edit?
Miko cleared her throat. "So, uh... sleep well?"
The woman smiled. It was gentle, fond, affectionate even.
"Always, when you're beside me."
Miko blinked. Her mouth opened, closed.
Very heavy for this early in the morning, Miko twirled her spoon in the cereal. "I don’t usually cook breakfast," she said, abruptly changing the topic.
The stranger didn’t seem to mind one bit, following the flow of conversation, no matter how odd. "Really?"
"Yeah, well—cooking for one gets... repetitive."
The woman smiled, teasing. "You cooked that cereal very well."
Miko snorted. "I can cook, thank you. I just don’t—well, no one to cook for."
The woman’s eyes softened. "Could I try your cooking sometime? Maybe dessert for breakfast next time?"
Miko laughed. "Maybe..."
But her laughter faded.
There’s never a next time, she thought. It’ll be just me again. Like always.
The woman hummed happily, continuing to eat her yogurt like the world was perfect, not one thing out of place.
Miko watched her eat, marveling. How was there someone here?
How was this even possible?
And why did it feel so good just to sit across from her, like this—pretending, even just for now, that loneliness wasn’t the only thing she ever woke up to?
They showered together.
Miko didn’t even know how they got there. One moment she was at the breakfast table, and the next, steam curled around her like a blanket. She stood under the warm spray, the tile cool beneath her feet, and the air thick with lavender and citrus. Her mind was foggy in the gentlest way—like sinking into a warm bath after a brutal day.
She couldn’t recall moving from the kitchen. Couldn't remember undressing. Just this, the sensation of warm water on her back, and the woman—this radiant, dark purple-haired woman—behind her, gently massaging her shoulders like it was second nature.
There was soap, and shampoo, and silence. Domestic. Comfortable.
The woman used exactly the right amount of conditioner—just enough to leave Miko’s hair soft, but not heavy. The same way Miko always did it herself. She worked her fingers through with such care that Miko shivered.
"You know how I like my hair washed?" Miko asked, her voice barely louder than the patter of water.
The woman gave a sly smile. "I pay attention."
Miko chuckled softly. "You're scarily good at this."
"Maybe it's just that you deserve to be cared for like this."
Miko stilled, her breath catching in her throat.
That’s when it hit her.
This was a dream.
Her subconscious, exhausted and stretched thin, had taken pity on her. It conjured a gentle fantasy wrapped in silk and steam and kindness. Probably based on the last romance novel she edited—there had been a shower scene in it, right? A warm one, not steamy. Something soft.
Thanks, brain, she thought. This is nice.
But then again… it was more than nice.
It was terrifying.
How could a dream feel this peaceful? How could it feel like home?
It struck her like a wound she hadn’t realized she was nursing.
This is what I’ve been denied.
Not passion. Not lust. But gentleness. Steady hands and quiet attention. The kind of intimacy that doesn't ask questions.
And the scariest part of all?
She didn’t want to wake up.
Because when she did, there’d be no warm hands. No shared silence. No someone who remembered how she liked her conditioner.
Just the hum of her empty apartment.
And the ache that never quite left her chest.
They rode the subway.
The hum of the train was low and steady, the occasional jolt rocking them gently. The overhead lights buzzed softly. Outside the window, the city blurred by—gray and blue streaks that made everything feel far away.
The stranger—the dream woman—reached for Miko's hand.
Miko hesitated. There were people around. Not many, but enough. Someone could see. She glanced around instinctively, old instincts flaring.
But then those violet eyes turned to her again—gentle, patient, so familiar it hurt.
And she caved.
Their hands met in the space between their seats. Fingers intertwined like they’d done this a hundred times before. Maybe they had, in dreams she couldn’t remember.
Warm.
How does a dream give off warmth? How does something her mind conjured feel like this?
Her fingers curled tighter around the woman’s, her palm pressing against skin that felt real. Soft and warm. Solid.
Her thoughts were all over the place, scattered like the pages of an unedited manuscript in a storm. She couldn’t focus. Not on the train. Not on her breathing. Not even on the woman beside her.
Everything was hazy.
Her cereal earlier had no taste. Her coffee had no bite. The air itself felt muted—like walking through fog. And yet, she could see. She could feel. Her senses dulled until they brushed up against the beautiful woman beside her—and suddenly, everything sharpened.
The scent of lavender. The press of skin. The shape of her smile.
Only beside this woman did the dream feel alive.
How does the woman in my dreams give so much life to it?
Miko looked down at their joined hands again, dazed.
Miko hadn’t realized it was Valentine’s Day. Not at first. The date had already come and gone in the waking world—or so she thought. She knew because her company always saw a spike in sales and discount sales for the romantically inclined and terminally single. But she herself never celebrated it. She mocked it half-heartedly, played cynic, avoided looking too closely at her calendar.
But the dream reminded her. Vendors lined the sidewalk, selling chocolate roses and heart-shaped pastries wrapped in delicate lace. Red and pink everywhere. It made the air feel sweet and silly and heavy.
The woman lit up like a child seeing a festival for the first time.
“Something catch your eye?” Miko asked.
“All of it,” she replied, almost breathless. “But especially that mochi.”
Miko didn’t even think. Her body moved before her mind did, stepping over to buy one—a delicate white mochi dusted with powdered sugar. She broke off a piece and offered it to the woman, who took it from her fingers with a playful smirk and chewed slowly, eyes fluttering closed.
“You always remember,” she whispered.
“Do I?” Miko asked, brow furrowing faintly.
The woman nodded, smiling like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You never forget Valentine’s. Even when you pretend you’re too busy.”
“Sounds like you know me better than I do.”
“Only because I love to learn everything about you.”
The words shouldn’t have struck so deeply. But they did. Miko smiled, though she didn’t know why. It felt like the right shape for her face in that moment.
Gods, she thought. If this is what being seen feels like, no wonder I buried myself in fiction.
Valentine’s Day had always been a silly day to her. A holiday meant for people with time, for people who didn’t come home too tired to text anyone back. It was roses and heart-shaped clichés, and Miko had always turned her nose up at it. But this—this simple act of someone remembering her, feeding her sugar, smiling like she mattered—it made her reconsider. Just a little.
They strolled together through the park. It looked like the parks in her city, but cleaner, brighter. Dream-washed. The colors were pastel-soft, the wind crisp but never cold.
That’s where they met Lumine and Kokomi.
Lumine, her no-nonsense assistant, sharp-eyed and perpetually ready to hand her a document. Kokomi, her partner—Miko’s, apparently—calm and collected, with the kind of smile that made you feel like everything was going to be okay.
“Hey, Boss,” Lumine said, offering a lazy salute. “Enjoying the day?”
“Trying to,” Miko replied automatically, eyes flicking between them.
It was strange. She never saw Lumine outside work. They didn’t have this kind of casual friendship. And Kokomi—Kokomi was someone she only ever exchanged polite emails with. The fact that they were here, so naturally folding into her dream, felt… off.
More than off. Scripted.
And yet they acted like old friends to the woman beside her. Laughing, teasing. Kokomi touched the woman’s shoulder in a way that spoke of years of familiarity. Lumine smirked knowingly.
“You seem happier lately,” Kokomi said, her voice soft, measured. “It’s nice to see.”
Miko blinked. “I… yeah?”
“Must be the company,” Lumine said, shooting the woman a grin. “Never seen you this soft, Boss.”
Miko laughed a little too quickly. “Don’t get used to it.”
But her voice was tight, her smile strained. She could hear herself trying to play along. Trying to hold the dream together.
She stared at the woman beside her. The one who radiated ease and comfort and unshakable confidence. Everyone liked her. Everyone knew her.
And Miko didn’t even know her name.
Their mouths kept moving—Lumine, Kokomi, the stranger—but the sound dulled, like water rushing over stone. Miko couldn’t follow it. Couldn’t latch onto anything.
This is a dream, she told herself. Just a dream. So why does it feel like the world’s folding in on itself?
The woman leaned closer and whispered, “They like me. They always do.”
“You keep saying things like that,” Miko murmured. “Like we’ve done this before.”
“Maybe we have,” she said, brushing Miko’s bangs from her eyes.
Her hand lingered. Fingers threading through Miko’s hair. Her eyes—violet, deep, familiar—studied her face like they’d memorized it long ago.
Her features came into sharp focus. Cheekbones that could cut glass. A mouth that curled like it knew too many secrets. Her beauty wasn’t flawless—it was felt. Intimate.
Damn, Miko thought. Didn’t know I scored so well. Nice going, dream me.
“You’re staring,” the woman teased.
“Can you blame me?”
“Not at all,” she replied. “I’m yours to look at.”
They went to a bookstore next.
The place was a quiet little corner shop tucked between a bakery and a florist, the kind of place that smelled like ink and nostalgia. Dust motes floated in golden beams of afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows. Miko wandered through the aisles, her fingers trailing along the spines of books she hadn’t touched in years.
She found herself talking. Rambling, even.
About her company. Her recent projects. Her frustrations.
“God, the meetings lately have been a nightmare,” she muttered, pausing in front of a shelf labeled Popular Romance. “And I have one tomorrow morning. Early.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose, almost in disbelief. “I started Yae Publishing in college,” she said, almost absently. “I was a full-time student and part-time editor. Built the foundation while writing papers at 2 a.m. and drinking way too much vending machine coffee.”
The woman smiled. “That’s incredible.”
“It’s exhausting,” Miko corrected, her voice quieter. “I write, too. Or... I used to. It’s been less and less over the years.”
There was a silence. Then, softly, “I always thought the people behind the words must be lonely sometimes.”
Miko stopped walking.
The sentence sliced through her like glass.
She blinked at the bookshelf, her eyes scanning titles without seeing a single one. Her throat tightened.
Wow, she thought bitterly. The dream should’ve stayed sweet.
That one hit too close.
But the woman hadn’t said it with judgment. She reached out, lightly touching Miko’s hand.
“Not in a bad way,” she said. “Just... some people feel so much they have to write it down. It doesn’t mean you’re alone.”
Miko swallowed. “You make it sound like you’ve known me forever.”
The woman tilted her head, amused. “Maybe I have.”
Even the dream woman wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t scripted. She said things that caught Miko off guard, even stung a little. But somehow, that only made her feel real.
More real than anything Miko had touched in years.
“It just seems like you take on too much,” the woman added.
Miko scoffed, trying to recover. “Says the dream woman who somehow knows my workload.”
“I just worry about you,” she said, with such disarming sincerity it knocked the wind out of Miko. “You deserve support.”
And gods help her, Miko believed her.
They continued through the store, the weight in Miko’s chest slowly softening.
The woman asked questions. Listened like Miko’s words meant something. Like she meant something. It wasn’t flattery. It wasn’t for show.
Miko couldn’t remember the last time someone made her feel so... heard.
Because it had been years.
She had built her empire to shield herself. Thrown herself into the world of others’ stories so she didn’t have to reckon with the ache of her own. She told herself she didn’t need anyone.
But she wanted someone.
Someone who saw her.
Then they passed a display of anime figurines, and the woman lit up like a thousand-watt bulb.
“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Look! Gundam models!”
Miko blinked, startled by the shift in tone.
“I used to build them with my sister,” the woman said, crouching down to examine one. “It was always messy. Glue everywhere. We were disasters. But mine were definitely better.”
She laughed, animated and bright, her hands gesturing wildly as she spoke. Her whole body moved when she got excited, like she couldn’t contain the joy inside her.
Miko barely followed what she was saying. She was too caught up in how she said it.
Expressive. Alive.
Gods, she was beautiful.
“You’re adorable when you’re excited,” Miko blurted.
Then immediately clamped her mouth shut.
The woman grinned like she’d just been handed a present. “Yes,” she said simply. “And I accept the compliment.”
Miko felt herself smiling. Not the polite smile she wore at meetings. Not the tight-lipped grin she gave interviewers. A real one. Loose and open and warm.
She wanted to bottle this moment. Memorize it. Return the favor.
Let her know she was being seen, too.
They took the subway once again to go home; it was mostly empty.
The lights overhead buzzed faintly. The soft rattle of the train on the tracks was like a lullaby. Outside, the city lights smeared past in streaks, too quick to catch.
Miko leaned against her dream-woman, feeling her arms wrap around her waist.
She smelled like lavender and sweetness.
The woman started talking animatedly about Pokémon. Her tone was enthusiastic, warm.
"Incineroar is technically the best overall in competitive Pokémon. It’s versatile, great in doubles, has Intimidate, can pivot well... but it’s not my favorite strategy. Too predictable."
Miko tilted her head, amused. "So, what’s your favorite, then?"
"Kingambit," the woman said immediately. "It’s got presence. That late-game sweep potential? Amazing. I also admit I am a fan of historical Japan and it is based on a samurai. But honestly, I’ve always loved Gengar. There’s something about the tricky types that gets me. You never really see them coming."
Miko raised a brow. "Because it’s a… ghost-type?"
"Exactly, I’m glad you remembered. Gengar’s unpredictable. Sneaky. A little mischievous. Ghost Pokémon in general have always fascinated me. Maybe it’s because my name’s associated with shadows." She laughed softly. "It just fits."
Miko found herself smiling. The way she talked—unfiltered and passionate—made it impossible to look away. It wasn’t just what she said, but how she said it. Like she could talk about anything and make it captivating.
The train slowed.
The woman rested her head on Miko’s shoulder. Her fingers tightened slightly around Miko’s.
And there it was again—that feeling that didn’t make sense. That impossible, aching warmth that no dream had any right to have. Miko's thoughts felt slippery and half-formed, her mind a foggy river she couldn’t quite swim through. Her awareness dipped in and out, like trying to hold onto smoke.
Miko closed her eyes for a moment.
Please, she thought. Let this last just a little longer.
Before she could help herself, Miko blurted out, "Sorry... I should've asked earlier. What's your name?"
The woman paused, as if processing the question and then smiled.
"Oh, my name is—"
Miko woke up.
Her bed was empty. Sheets clinging to her with sweat. Her fox plush sat on the pillow beside her like a cruel reminder of what wasn’t real.
No scent of lavender. No purple eyes. No warm arms.
Just the pale gray morning light and a hollow echo in her chest.
The room was cold.
And so was she.
She didn’t move at first. Her body ached—not from sleep, but from the loss of something she hadn’t truly had. The woman. The voice. The hand in hers. The weight of a second presence that had made her feel whole.
Gone.
Dreams are things we wish and hold most dear to our hearts, she thought bitterly. But how do you reach your dreams? How can you love when you’ve been without it so long you forget what it feels like?
Her life was a blur of ink and deadlines. Of manuscripts and copyedits and press schedules. She told stories for a living—romances that made people believe in something better—but it was never for her. She had spent so long telling others what love looked like, she couldn’t even remember what it felt like for herself.
It was pathetic, wasn’t it? That the most intimate moment she’d had in years was conjured by her subconscious. That her heart would ache this much over a ghost made of dreams.
She lay back down for a moment, curled around the plush fox that did nothing to fill the void. Its once-soft fur now worn and clumped from years of being held too tightly on nights she’d never admit were lonely.
She stared up at the ceiling.
She wished she hadn’t woken up.
Then she turned to her phone. Monday. February 15th. 9:07 a.m.
"Shit," she muttered.
Panic tried to push away the sadness, but the ache remained like a bruise under her ribs. She scrambled to her feet. Threw on wrinkled clothes. Skipped coffee. She didn’t even check her reflection before bolting out the door.
While she usually took the subway—where she could hide behind earbuds and the glow of her phone—today, she had no choice. Her car keys jingled with urgency as she tore out of the garage and sped across the city. The streets passed in a blur, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. Her chest still hollow. Her mind still caught in the ghost of a dream.
She parked like a madwoman. Didn’t even lock the door. Her heels clicked hard against the marble floors of the publishing firm she built from scratch. The one thing she had poured everything into.
Lumine was already waiting at her office door, packet in hand. Not even surprised.
“Here’s some information on who you’re meeting.”
Miko scoffed at the packet. She flipped through it. "Hmm, I prefer to wing it."
"You know, you always say that, but I think you’re lying."
Miko gives a cheeky smile. “Maybe so, anyway, who am I meeting again? It slipped my mind,” she says while moving to open the door. “Can’t keep whoever waiting even more.” She does need the investment money for future book publishing projects.
Lumine had a tired face, but complied just as Miko opened the door. "It’s Raiden Electronics."
Miko’s hand was already on the conference room door when she froze.
She barely heard the name. Barely processed the words.
Because when she stepped through the threshold, time seemingly stopped.
Standing there, framed by glass and sunlight, was her.
Elegant plum blazer. Long dark hair. Violet eyes. Sharp. Beautiful.
Real.
Her heart stopped in her chest.
“Hello, Ms. Yae, I presume? My name is Raiden Ei. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
That voice.
That voice.
It was softer now. Professional. Tinted with formality. But Miko would recognize it in any world.
Raiden Ei extended her hand.
Miko didn’t move.
She stared. Her brain short-circuited.
Was this another dream? Had she fallen asleep again in the car?
Was this the universe’s way of mocking her?
You again, she thought.
I’m still dreaming. Aren’t I?
Her chest ached with something deep and ancient and fragile. Like if she blinked too hard, Ei would vanish.
But Ei didn’t vanish.
She stood there, poised, polite, waiting.
Miko finally stepped forward. Took her hand. Felt the warmth of real skin. A real person.
“Lovely meeting you, Ms. Raiden,” she said, voice steadier than she expected. “Excuse my tardiness, but... we can now start our meeting.”
But something in her eyes gave her away.
Because Miko was no longer sure what was real—only that, whatever this was, it hurt.
And she wasn’t ready to let go of the dream.
Not yet.