Disclaimer: The day I lay claim to what is Neil Gaiman's is the day I ought to be hanged and quartered for an ungrateful wretch of a plagiarist.
Just Dream
She had glimpsed him once, in her sleep. She didn't know if it had been by chance, or if, by some extraordinary design of his own, he had meant for her to see him (it was the former, she kept telling herself, it was only logical that it was the former, but she couldn't quite quash the hopeful bubble that whispered that he had paid her the tiniest grain of attention), but whatever circumstances had brought it about it remained that she had seen him.
And the sight of him was all that mattered.
She could no longer remember what the rest of the dream had been about; it had all gone to pieces when she woke up. But his image remained, blazing like a beacon in her mind: tall and deathly pale, swathed in a robe that seemed to have been woven out of the night itself with flames dancing in its dark folds, his long dark hair twisting and tangling lawlessly, and his eyes like twin stars reflected in deep pools of dark water.
It was hopeless, she knew, for mortals could not love the Endless, especially if the Endless in question was as distant and far away as the Sun and cold as the dark side of the Moon. She would not hope for love, or for a touch or kiss, or for the merest brush of his fingertips against her skin. But it was left to her to dream, and hope against hope to dream of him again.