When he opens his eyes, she's already wide awake.
"Hello."
He forgets just how tender she could be when she's not angry, when she's not off running headfirst into danger like the spitfire that she is.
"Hello," he greets back, slowly, unsurely. His hand moves on its own accord and stops before he could touch her. It hovers over her face, above the stray tendrils of her ever wild hair, thick and brown. His fingers twitch, yearning for the contact, and it takes a few seconds for him to decide that it's safe to proceed. He tucks the strands behind her ear, allowing him to see her face with an unhinged view. His palm settles at the junction between her jaw and neck, and she lets out a long breath, contentment leaving her lungs.
"I thought you'd never wake up," she says, reaching for his hand with her own and pushing his hand up to cup her cheek instead. "I could never get used to sleeping in ships. It's so unnatural, not having a sun to tell you when to get up."
"I know," he breathes out, his fingers shaking in her grasp. "I didn't know if I could wake up. If I wanted to."
"What's the matter?" she asks, her thin brows furrowing close together, her lips pursing into a frown, concern etching itself onto the soft lines on her face. No matter what expression she puts on, she is resplendent in the simple beauty she carries within herself. He recounts all the times she has been angry, happy, saddened – her face never betrays her emotions. If he can trust one person to always be honest, it's her. And he cannot bring himself to speak anything but the truth with her.
"I had a dream that you died." He almost chokes on the air as he answers her question. If his breath hitched in his response, she doesn't make a note of it. Instead, she laughs, so innocent and unadulterated in her mirth that it takes some of his apprehensions away. He tries to twist his lips upwards to a small smile, to acknowledge the prosperousness of his last statement as she currently is, but his mouth feels leaden.
"What an awful dream that must have been." When her once boisterous chuckles quiet down, she resumes her previous façade of tenderness. Her gaze is penetrating, though nothing short of thoughtful in its intent. He could get lost in the light of her eyes – he had been so tempted too many times by them, and yet... "I'm still here, aren't I? What made you think that you could get rid of me so easily?"
She moves her hand to his face and as much as he doesn't want to give in to the touch that feels like it could heal all of his hurt, his eyes close and he relaxes into the warmth of her palm.
When he opens his eyes once more, she is no longer there.
Tousled sheets occupy where her figure once was. The white walls around him, once clear and pristine in his previous vision, are now charred with his outburst of rage and frustration from the previous night. When he lifts his torso and sits himself against the headrest, he could feel the prickles of pain where he had been injured from the battle that occurred just hours before, from where he last saw her, frantically searching for him in the ruins of war, their eyes meeting right before he watched her fall with the rest of her friends.
When he closes his eyes, she's back in his sight, smiling at him like it means forgiveness.