My Dreamwalker's Obsession

Chapter 4: Dream Visitor

Mira’s eyelids felt heavier than usual that night. The day had dragged on with its usual monotony—meetings, emails, phone calls—but her mind kept drifting back to brunch, to Adrian’s gaze, to that Polaroid resting on her table. She told herself repeatedly it was harmless curiosity. That evening, she made tea, tried reading, even scrolled aimlessly through her social media feed. Nothing helped.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed her. She sank into her bed, the familiar sheets oddly comforting. The hum of the city outside her window became a distant murmur, and soon her consciousness slipped into that fragile space between wakefulness and sleep.

She felt him before she saw him.

The room shimmered with a hazy silver light, almost as if moonlight had been refracted through fog. Adrian was there, standing just beyond the edge of her bed. His eyes, piercing and alive, held a strange softness that made her pulse race.

“Mira,” he whispered, his voice low, intimate. “I’ve missed you.”

Her chest tightened. She wanted to say no, to demand that he leave, but words lodged in her throat. The dream felt more real than any memory she had of waking life. Her body tensed, yet she could not move.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, giving her space, yet closing the distance with an inevitability she could neither resist nor escape. The scent of him, sharp and intoxicating, filled the air. It was the same scent from the perfume he had sent weeks ago, though she had only glanced at it once. Somehow, here it was, alive and warm.

“I don’t…” she began, trying to assert control, “I don’t know why you’re here.”

Adrian smiled faintly, tilting his head. “You do. You feel it too.”

Mira swallowed hard. She hated how true that was. In this dream world, she felt a pull unlike anything else. A mixture of fear, fascination, and undeniable craving.

He knelt beside the bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers trailed lightly along her jawline, causing shivers that made her spine arch involuntarily. She tried to focus on logic. He wasn’t real. He couldn’t touch her. Yet every nerve in her body screamed otherwise.

“You’re trembling,” Adrian murmured. “Do you like that?”

Mira’s throat went dry. “I… I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?” His hand lingered at the side of her neck, hovering so close she could feel the warmth without pressure. “Feel desire? Fear? Or both?”

Her pulse raced. Every instinct screamed to pull away, but at the same time, she found herself leaning subtly toward him. There was a rush in the surrender, a thrill in the loss of control that frightened her more than anything else.

“Don’t tease me,” she said finally, voice trembling, a mix of anger and longing.

He smiled, though there was something almost tragic in it. “I’m not teasing. I’m revealing what’s always been there.”

Adrian’s fingers found her hair, stroking it with delicate insistence. Mira’s eyes closed despite her protests. Her mind spun—resisting, fearing, craving—all at once. The sensations were overwhelming. The line between violation and intimacy blurred with every heartbeat.

“You don’t even realize how much you’ve wanted this,” he said softly, tracing her hair along her shoulder. “How much you’ve imagined it, even in the daylight.”

Mira shook her head, but the movement was weak, unconvincing. The truth in his words made her chest ache. She had felt it—an invisible pull, a fascination with the impossible, an addiction to the attention she couldn’t explain.

The dream shifted subtly. Now they were not in her bedroom but in a quiet, dimly lit library, filled with books that smelled of old paper and cedar. He was close, but the distance allowed her to breathe, to feel some semblance of choice.

“You are mine,” Adrian whispered, almost as a vow, almost as a confession. “Not because I want to take, but because I cannot help but notice, cannot help but care.”

Mira’s lips parted, a gasp escaping despite her attempt at composure. “This is madness,” she whispered. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted softly. “And you will. You want it. You just don’t know how to admit it.”

The assertion was terrifying. And yet, in that dream-space, terrifying was intoxicating. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She was aware of every inch of herself, every suppressed desire, every moral line she had drawn in waking life.

He leaned back slightly, giving her space, and yet the tension remained electric. “Tell me,” he urged. “Tell me you don’t feel it.”

“I…” Her voice faltered. She had no words strong enough to deny him, no conviction strong enough to assert distance. The honesty was undeniable even in refusal.

He didn’t press further. Instead, he watched her with a reverent intensity that made her heart ache. “I will wait,” he said finally. “Not for permission, but for the moment when you cannot resist.”

Mira awoke with a start. Her sheets were twisted around her legs, her hair damp with sweat. The city outside her window hummed softly, normal and indifferent. Yet she felt hollow, drained, and curiously alive at the same time.

For hours, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The dream, the touch, the attention. It lingered like a phantom limb she couldn’t shake. She felt the addictive pull already, the longing for a return she knew she should resist.

Coffee the next morning was bitter, unsatisfying. Every sound, every shadow, every movement made her flinch. She caught herself imagining him—Adrian—in every reflective surface, every passing stranger with familiar green eyes. She hated herself for it and feared herself as much.

And yet… a part of her ached to feel that thrill again, to surrender, just once more, to the impossible intimacy he offered.

By the time she left her apartment for work, she carried the memory of his touch, the whisper of his voice, and the haunting intensity of his gaze. She told herself repeatedly it was a dream. It was not real. She would resist.

But deep inside, she already knew that resisting might be futile.