It's the same dream as it always is.
It starts out in a forest, and she's with a group of women she's never seen before. One of them she knows she's close with, but Emma can never quite remember her face.
The dream moves slowly in some parts and quickly in others. She never quite figures out how she gets there (the semantics of the netherworld, she supposes), but somehow she winds up on a giant beanstalk (yeah, one of those beanstalks, of the fo-fum notoriety) alongside a dark-haired man.
Then her dream shifts, and she finds herself on an island. It's hot and she's surrounded by jungle—and people, there are people, and she thinks she might even know some of them—and she thinks Henry might be there, somewhere, but she's never quite sure.
The man's face is the only one she ever sees.
It all blurs in and out of focus. She might not be able to describe the shape of his nose or the stye of his dress, but she can feel the velvet on his tongue and recall (as clear as if it were a memory) the color of his eyes: deep, brilliant, and blue as forget-me-nots.
Just as he always whispers to her.
Forget-me-not, Emma. Remember me.
There's not a day that will go by that I will not think of you.
She tries to cry out, ask him who he is and why he's thinking of her—but that's always when she wakes up, his promises whispered into the world on her own lips, halfway between wide-awake and dreaming.
—
The moment she opens the door, she can feel her heart seizing in its place. Her jaw drops, taking him in.
The light meets his eyes, and his lips lift, his voice soft, almost incredulous, like he can't believe it and he's whispering, "Swan," like he's known her forever.
And for a moment, she believes him.
Because for a moment, she thinks she knows him. But it's impossible, it can't be him.
That man isn't real.
He moves closer, trying to enter through the doorway. "At last," he breathes, almost to himself. Her instincts kick in, because no way is some stranger barreling into the kitchen where Henry waits. Her hand flies out, pushing him back.
"Do I know you?"
Yes.
No.
He doesn't hesitate. "I need your help. Something's happened, something terrible. Your family is in trouble."
But Henry's safe, in the kitchen; she shouldn't need her superpower to see if he's lying, and yet…somehow he isn't. She narrows her eyes. "My family's right here. Who are you?"
His voice drops into a whisper, his eyes—his eyes, his eyes, why does she know those eyes—gleaming imploringly. "An old friend," he says hushedly. "I know you can't remember me…"
Remember me.
Emma cocks her neck, squinting. He can't be, he isn't, it's not real, the man who visits her in her dreams is nothing but the result of too much television before bed. She doesn't know him.
"…But I can make you."
In her distractions, she barely notices his anxiety, the jump in his step before he leaps forward and brings their lips crashing together.
For a fleeting moment, her eyes begin to flutter closed, because somehow this is right. His lips on hers feel more like a memory than an assault, as if he's the only one who's ever meant to kiss her, who maybe ever was.
She considers melting into it for half a second before wising up, her eyes snapping open and her knee jolting upwards into his groin. He doubles over and falls backwards against the wall. "The hell are you doing?" She cries, because who the hell goes knocking on strangers doors and kissing them like as though they've done it before?
"A long shot," he winces, trying to stand. "I was hoping you felt as I did."
What the actual fuck, she thinks, he's actually a stalker.
She doesn't know him. She can't know him. So how could she feel the same way?
"All I gotta feel is the handcuffs when I call the cops," she huffs.
His voice takes on a desperate turn, eyes turning pleading. "I-I know this seems crazy, but you have to listen to me, you have to remem—"
She slams the door shut, breathing heavily.
She doesn't have to remember anything.
She doesn't know him.
He's not the man from her dreams, blue eyes or not. That's impossible. It would be crazy.
And yet, when she sits down for breakfast with her son, his voice echoes in her ears, something she distinctly knows he didn't say in the hallway.
There's not a day that will go by that I will not think of you.