He was hovering, like he did in the water, but I was there too, and I was breathing—and dream-me was smart enough not to ask questions, especially when dream-Cepharius looked at me like that. Like I was the answer to all of his dreams. I couldn’t imagine that I could be, but what was the harm in indulging myself? How long had it been since I’d had a dream like that? Or since someone else had touched me, non-clinically?
