Chapter 12: Bruised Knuckles and Breakfast
The sun came through the curtains like an accusation.
Nova woke slowly, her body heavy, her mind fogged with the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn't cure. The sheets were tangled around her legs. The pillow still smelled faintly of him—whiskey and rain and something darker underneath.
She reached for her phone.
No messages.
She sat up. Looked around the room. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
He was gone.
Of course he was gone. That's what he did. Show up like a storm, wreck everything, leave before the damage could be assessed. She'd known that going in. She'd told herself she was fine with it.
She wasn't fine with it.
She swung her legs out of bed. Pulled on her sleep shorts and a loose t-shirt. Walked to the kitchen to make coffee, her feet cold against the hardwood.
The coffee was halfway brewed when the knock came.
Three sharp raps. Insistent. Familiar.
She didn't check the peephole. She already knew.
She opened the door.
Zay stood there.
The morning light caught him from behind, turning the edges of his silhouette gold. He was wearing a clean hoodie—black, no graphics—and dark jeans. His hair was damp, like he'd just showered. He looked put together. Controlled.
But his hands.
His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, like he was hiding something.
And he was holding a bag of pastries in one hand and a bouquet of sunflowers in the other.
Nova stared at the flowers. Then at his face.
"What is this?"
"Breakfast." He held up the bag. "And flowers."
"I can see that." She didn't move. "What are you doing here, Zay?"
He didn't answer. Just stood there, looking at her with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"Can I come in?"
She stepped aside.
He walked past her. Into the kitchen. Set the pastries on the counter. Laid the sunflowers next to them. The yellow petals caught the light, bright and obnoxious against the neutral tones of her apartment.
Nova crossed her arms. Leaned against the doorframe.
"You left."
"I know."
"You didn't say goodbye."
"I know."
"So what? You just—" She stopped. Took a breath. "What are you doing here?"
He turned to face her. His hands were still in his pockets.
"I wanted to see you."
"You saw me last night. And this morning. Before you left without a word."
"I know." He paused. "Nova, I—"
"Where did you go?"
The question hung between them.
He didn't answer.
"Zay." Her voice sharpened. "Where did you go after you left?"
He pulled his hands out of his pockets.
She saw them.
His knuckles were split open. The skin around them was purple and swollen. The middle finger on his right hand was bent at an angle that made her stomach drop.
"You went after him."
Not a question.
He didn't deny it.
"Zay." She stepped forward. Grabbed his wrist. Turned his hand over. The damage was worse up close—crusted blood, angry bruising, the kind of swelling that meant he'd hit something hard. Someone hard. "You went after Malcolm."
"He needed to know there were consequences."
"Consequences?" She dropped his hand. Stepped back. "You beat him up? You—what? Showed up at his house? His work? Ambushed him?"
"Doesn't matter where."
"It absolutely matters." Her voice was rising. "You can't just—you can't just go around hurting people because you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"Then what would you call it?"
He looked at her. Calm. Steady.
"I'd call it justice."
She laughed. Short. Bitter.
"Justice. You think that's justice? You think beating the shit out of some guy because he was rough with me is justice?"
"Yeah. I do."
"Malcolm didn't do anything I didn't agree to."
The words hung in the air.
Zay's jaw tightened. His eyes darkened.
"You agreed to sex with him," he said. Voice low. Hard. "You didn't agree to him being rough. You didn't agree to him leaving marks. You didn't agree to him treating you like something to use."
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
"I know what you told me on the phone," he continued, stepping closer. "You said he was careless. That he dug his nails in. That he called you names you didn't like. That's not sex, Nova. That's not what you signed up for."
She felt her throat tighten.
"You don't get to decide what I signed up for."
"I'm not deciding anything. I'm telling you what I saw." He was close now. Close enough that she could smell the soap on his skin. "You came home shaking. You showered for twenty minutes. You fell asleep on my shoulder like you hadn't slept in days. That's not nothing."
"It's not your job to fix it."
"I know."
"Then why did you do it?"
He didn't answer.
"Zay. Why did you do it?"
His eyes held hers.
"Because anyone who hurts you answers to me."
The floor shifted under her feet.
Part of her wanted to scream at him. To tell him he had no right. That she wasn't his property. That she could fight her own battles. That she'd been doing it long before he showed up.
But another part of her—a part she didn't want to name—felt something crack open in her chest. Something she'd been holding shut for years.
No one had ever stood between her and the world like this.
No one had ever looked at her like she was worth bleeding for.
She grabbed his wrist.
Pulled him toward her.
Kissed him.
It was hard. Messy. Desperate. Her hands fisted in his hoodie. His hands found her waist. Her hips. The back of her thighs.
They didn't make it to the bedroom.
He lifted her onto the kitchen counter. She knocked over the bag of pastries. Didn't care. He shoved her sleep shorts aside—didn't bother taking them off—and she heard the zipper of his jeans, the rustle of fabric.
"You're fucking impossible," she breathed against his mouth.
"I know."
He pushed inside her.
No preamble. No condom. Just skin against skin. Just him filling her completely, stretching her, making her gasp.
Her back hit the cabinets.
He fucked her hard.
Every thrust was punishment and apology and claim all at once. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the counter. The sunflowers tipped over. Water from the vase she'd forgotten to fill spilled across the granite.
She didn't care.
He grabbed her hips. Pulled her closer. Angled himself deeper.
"Fuck," she gasped.
"You think I wanted this?" His voice was rough. Broken. "You think I wanted to care about you?"
She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words.
"I tried to stay away. I tried to let you go. But you—" He drove into her harder. "You keep pulling me back."
Her nails dug into his shoulders.
"I'm not pulling you anywhere."
"You are. You don't even know you're doing it."
He kissed her. Swallowed her moans. His hand slid between them. Found her clit. Pressed.
She came with a cry that she couldn't hold back.
Her body clenched around him. Her vision went white at the edges. She heard him groan—guttural, raw—and then he was coming too, spilling inside her, his hips stuttering, his forehead pressed to hers.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The coffee maker beeped. The sunflowers lay scattered on the counter. The apartment was filled with the smell of sex and fresh coffee and something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Nova's hands were still fisted in his hoodie. His hands were still on her hips.
She could feel his heartbeat. Fast. Erratic.
"You can't keep doing this," she whispered.
"I know."
"Fighting my battles. Showing up like a storm."
"I know."
"You can't just—" She stopped. Swallowed. "You can't just break down my door and fuck me on the counter and expect everything to be okay."
He pulled back. Just enough to look at her.
"I don't expect anything."
"Then what do you want?"
He pressed his forehead to hers.
"I want you."
The words were simple. Honest. Terrifying.
She closed her eyes.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He pulled out slowly. She winced. He grabbed a dish towel—clean, thank God—and pressed it between her legs. Gentle. Careful.
She watched him. This man who punched people for her. This man who showed up at her door with pastries and flowers and bruised knuckles. This man who didn't know how to do relationships but kept showing up anyway.
"I can't keep doing this," she said again.
"I know."
"Something has to change."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
He looked at her. His dark eyes were soft. Tired.
"What do you want me to say?"
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't know.
---
He cleaned up the counter while she showered.
When she came out, he was sitting on the couch. Staring at the wall. The sunflowers were back in their vase. The pastries were on a plate. The coffee was poured.
He'd made her breakfast.
She sat down next to him. Picked up a croissant. Took a bite.
"These are from that bakery on Fifth."
"Yeah."
"The one with the almond ones."
"Yeah."
She chewed. Swallowed.
"Why sunflowers?"
He shrugged.
"Looked like you."
She looked at the flowers. Bright. Bold. Unapologetic.
"Because they're tall and yellow?"
"Because they turn toward the light."
She stopped chewing.
He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the wall like it held answers he couldn't find.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he said. "I don't know how to be what you need. But I know I can't walk away."
She set the croissant down.
"Then don't."
He turned. Looked at her.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
He shook his head.
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm—" He stopped. Ran his hand over his jaw. "Because I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be someone's boyfriend. I don't know how to be soft. I don't know how to—"
"Zay."
He stopped.
"I'm not asking you to be soft. I'm asking you to be here."
Silence.
He reached for her hand. Took it. Held it.
"I can do that."
She squeezed his fingers.
"Okay."
He leaned in. Kissed her forehead. Slow. Gentle.
"I'm sorry I left this morning."
"Okay."
"I'm sorry I hurt him without asking you first."
"Okay."
"I'm not sorry he's hurt."
She laughed. Short. Surprised.
"Fair enough."
He kissed her again. This time on the mouth. Soft. Lingering.
"I should go," he said.
"You just got here."
"I have a meeting."
"What kind of meeting?"
"Business."
She raised an eyebrow.
"That kind of meeting."
"Yeah."
She let go of his hand.
"Go."
He stood. Looked down at her.
"I'll call you."
"You better."
He walked to the door. Paused.
"Nova."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Just—don't shut me out."
She didn't respond.
He left.
The door clicked shut.
She sat on the couch. Alone. The coffee was getting cold. The sunflowers were still bright.
She picked up her phone.
Texted Mei.
He's back.
Mei responded instantly. What does that mean?
Nova stared at the screen.
I don't know, she typed. But I think I'm in trouble.
Mei's reply came fast. Trouble how?
Nova set the phone down. Didn't answer.
She already knew.
Trouble like falling.
Trouble like drowning.
Trouble like letting a man with bruised knuckles and a guarded heart become the center of her universe.
---
Later that afternoon, she went to the studio.
Not Malcolm's. Her own—a cramped room in a shared building downtown that smelled like mildew and cheap coffee. She'd rented it for two years. It was the only place she could think.
She sat at her keyboard. Closed her eyes. Let her fingers find the keys.
A melody came. Slow. Minor. Something that sounded like longing.
She played it once. Twice. Three times.
Then she wrote.
Lyrics about a man who fought wars she didn't ask him to fight. About a woman who let him. About the space between wanting and having and all the ways they bled into each other.
She wrote until her hand cramped. Until the sun went down. Until her phone buzzed on the desk.
She picked it up.
Zay.
You home?
She typed back. At studio.
His response came through. Okay.
That was it. Just okay.
She set the phone down. Went back to the keyboard.
But she couldn't focus.
Because she was thinking about him. About the way he'd looked at her that morning. About the way he'd said, I want you.
About the fact that she believed him.
---
She went home at midnight.
He was parked outside her building. Sitting on the hood of his car. Looking up at the sky.
She walked over.
"What are you doing here?"
"Waiting."
"For what?"
"For you."
She stood in front of him. Arms crossed.
"You could have texted."
"I did."
"I mean—you could have asked if you could come over."
"I know."
"Then why are you just sitting here?"
He looked at her. His eyes were tired. His knuckles were still bruised.
"Because I didn't want to push."
She let out a breath.
"You have a weird way of not pushing."
He almost smiled.
"Yeah."
She uncrossed her arms.
"Come inside."
He followed her up.
---
They didn't have sex.
They just lay in her bed. His arm around her. Her head on his chest. The stars visible through the window.
"Tell me something," she said.
"Like what?"
"Something true."
He was quiet for a long time.
"I'm scared," he said.
"Of what?"
"Of you."
She lifted her head. Looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because I don't know what happens if I lose you."
She settled back against him.
"You're not going to lose me."
"You don't know that."
"I know what I feel."
He didn't respond.
She closed her eyes.
"Zay."
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared too."
She felt his arm tighten around her.
"Of what?"
"Of you. Of this. Of what happens when it ends."
"It doesn't have to end."
She opened her eyes. Stared at the ceiling.
"Everything ends."
He was quiet.
Then: "Not if we don't let it."
She didn't answer.
Because she wanted to believe him.
More than anything.
She wanted to believe.
---
By morning, she'd made a decision.
She woke before him. Watched him sleep. The way his face relaxed. The way his breathing slowed. The way he looked almost peaceful when he wasn't trying so hard to be hard.
She got up. Made coffee. Sat at the kitchen counter.
When he came out—hair mussed, eyes bleary—she was waiting.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
He poured himself a cup. Sat across from her.
"You're thinking," he said.
"I'm always thinking."
"What about?"
She took a breath.
"I want to try."
He looked at her.
"Try what?" She met his eyes. "This. Whatever it is."
He was quiet.
"I told you I don't know how."
"I know. I don't either." She leaned forward. "But I'm willing to figure it out. If you are."
He stared at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"Okay."
"Okay."
He reached across the counter. Took her hand.
"I'm going to fuck this up," he said.
"Probably."
"I'm going to say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. Push too hard. Pull away."
"Probably."
"You're still in?"
She squeezed his fingers.
"I'm still in."
He lifted her hand. Kissed her knuckles.
"Then I'm in too."
---
She should have felt relieved.
She didn't.
She felt like she'd jumped off a cliff without checking if there was water below.
But he was holding her hand.
And for now, that was enough.
The week that followed tasted like something between a ceasefire and a dare.
Nova went to class. Turned in an assignment on Delta blues. Sat through a lecture on analog versus digital recording that she'd heard three times already. She ate lunch with Mei, who kept asking questions Nova didn't have answers to.
"So he just—stayed?"
"Yes."
"All night?"
"Yes."
"And you're okay with that?"
Nova stabbed at her salad. "I'm figuring it out."
Mei raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.
Zay texted every day. Not constantly. Not clingy. Just consistent. Good morning. How's the track coming. You eat yet. Small things. Anchors.
She found herself checking her phone more than she should.
Thursday afternoon, she was in the studio, headphones on, tweaking a bass line that wouldn't sit right. Her phone buzzed against the desk. She ignored it. Buzz. Ignored it again. Buzz.
She pulled off the headphones.
Three messages from Zay.
Kickback tomorrow night.
My spot. The record store.
You should come.
She stared at the screen. Typed back: What kind of kickback?
His response came fast. Los Rojos. Low key. Just the crew.
She chewed her lip. Typed: Can I bring Mei?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Yeah. I'll pick you both up.
She set the phone down. Picked it back up.
What time?
Nine.
She typed: Okay.
Then: Should I be nervous?
His reply: Nah. They're gonna love you.
She didn't believe him.
---
Friday night, she stood in front of her closet for twenty minutes.
Too dressy and she'd look like she was trying too hard. Too casual and she'd look like she didn't care. She settled on black jeans that hugged her hips and a cropped sweater that showed just enough skin to be intentional.
Mei showed up at eight thirty. Wearing a red dress that left nothing to the imagination.
"You look insane," Nova said.
"I know." Mei grinned. "So do you. Is that the point?"
"I don't know what the point is."
Mei flopped onto the couch. "The point is you're meeting his people. That's a thing. That means something."
"It doesn't mean anything."
Mei gave her a look.
"Okay. It means something."
The buzzer rang at nine on the dot.
Nova hit the intercom. "Yeah?"
"It's me."
She buzzed him up. Opened the door.
Zay stood in the hallway. Black hoodie. Dark jeans. Gold chain barely visible at his collar. He looked like he always looked—controlled, composed, dangerous in a way that made her pulse stutter.
His eyes moved over her. Slow. Deliberate.
"You look good."
"You too."
He stepped inside. Nodded at Mei.
"Mei."
"Zay." She crossed her arms. "I hear you've been causing problems."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"Something like that."
"Good." Mei stood. Grabbed her purse. "Let's go."
---
The record store was called Groove Theory.
It sat on a corner in a part of the city that didn't make it onto postcards. Brick building. Hand-painted sign. Bars on the windows that looked more decorative than functional.
Zay parked around back. Led them through a door that required three keys and a code.
The store itself was closed. Lights dim. Rows of vinyl stretching into shadow. The smell of old cardboard and dust and something sweet—incense, maybe.
But the back room was alive.
Nova heard it before she saw it. Bass thumping low. Laughter. Voices overlapping.
Zay pushed through a beaded curtain.
The room opened up.
It was bigger than she expected. Exposed brick. Mismatched couches. A DJ setup in the corner spinning something slow and heavy. Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. People everywhere—sitting, standing, dancing, smoking.
Everyone looked up when Zay walked in.
Daps. Nods. A few handshakes. Low murmurs of respect.
"Zay."
"What's good, bro."
"Yo, Zay."
He acknowledged each one. Calm. Measured. The kind of ease that came from years of command.
Nova watched him transform. Not into someone else—into more of himself. The version of him that existed outside her apartment. The version that ran things.
Mei leaned close. "This is insane."
"I know."
"Like—these are some fine-ass gangsters."
Nova elbowed her. "Focus."
"I am focused. On the fine-ass gangsters."
A guy approached them. Tall. Built. Dark skin and a easy smile. He looked at Nova. Then at Mei. Then back at Nova.
"Which one's yours?"
Zay's arm slid around Nova's waist. Pulled her against his side.
"This one's mine." He tilted his head toward Mei. "That one might be too much for you, Marcus."
Mei's eyes narrowed.
"Shut up, Zay. Or you're banned from our place."
Zay held up both hands. Surrender.
"My bad."
Marcus laughed. Low. Warm. He looked at Mei.
"Too much for me, huh?"
Mei met his gaze. "Depends. You think you can handle it?"
"I don't know." He stepped closer. "Why don't you dance with me and find out?"
Mei glanced at Nova. Nova shrugged.
Mei took his hand. Let him lead her toward the makeshift dance floor.
Nova watched them go. Then looked up at Zay.
"Too much for him?"
"She'll eat him alive."
"And you're okay with that?"
"He's a big boy." Zay's hand tightened on her waist. "He can take it."
She turned into him. Let her body press against his.
"You didn't ask me to be your lady."
He looked down at her. Dark eyes. Unreadable.
"I know."
"You just told everyone."
"I know."
"Why?"
He leaned down. Mouth near her ear.
"Because I'm gonna do it right." His breath was warm against her skin. "But I wanted to let it be known first."
She felt something twist low in her stomach.
"Do it right how?"
He pulled back. Looked at her.
"Come with me."
He took her hand. Led her through the crowd. Past the couches. Past the DJ. Past a door marked PRIVATE.
Inside was a small room. A desk. A couch. Crates of vinyl stacked against the wall. His jacket hanging on a hook.
He closed the door. Locked it.
Turned to face her.
"This is your office?"
"Something like that."
She looked around. Took in the details. A turntable in the corner. A half-empty bottle of whiskey on the desk. Papers scattered across the surface.
"You bring all your girls here?"
"Just you."
She raised an eyebrow. "Should I be flattered?"
"You should be honest."
She stepped closer. "About what?"
"About what you want."
The room was small. The air was thick. She could hear the bass through the walls. Muffled. Distant. Like a heartbeat.
She reached for him. Fisted her hand in his hoodie. Pulled him down.
Kissed him.
He responded immediately. Hands on her hips. Backing her up. Her legs hit the desk. He lifted her onto it. Papers scattered. The whiskey bottle wobbled.
She didn't care.
He pulled at her sweater. She helped him—yanked it over her head. Tossed it somewhere. His mouth found her neck. Her collarbone. The curve of her breast above her bra.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he muttered against her skin.
She reached for his belt. Unbuckled it. Unzipped his jeans. His cock was already hard. She wrapped her fingers around it. Stroked.
He groaned.
"Fuck."
"You want me?"
"I always want you."
She guided him toward her. He pushed her jeans down. Just enough. Just past her hips.
"Condom?"
"In my wallet."
He pulled it out. Rolled it on. Positioned himself.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
He pushed inside her.
Slow. Deep. Her back arched. Her hands grabbed the edge of the desk.
"Fuck," she gasped.
He pulled out. Pushed back in. Harder.
"You feel so good."
She couldn't respond. Couldn't think. He filled her completely. Stretched her. Made her forget where she was.
"Harder," she said.
He obliged.
The desk creaked. The whiskey bottle fell. Broke. Neither of them looked.
He grabbed her hips. Pulled her against him. Every thrust hit deeper. Harder.
"Who's your lady?" he asked. Voice rough.
She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words.
"Say it."
"I'm—" She gasped. "I'm yours."
"You're fucking right you are."
He drove into her. Relentless. Punishing. Perfect.
She felt it building. Low in her belly. Spreading through her thighs.
"I'm gonna come," she breathed.
"Come for me."
"I'm—"
"Say my name."
"Zay—"
"Say it."
"Zay." Louder. "Zay."
She came. Hard. Her body clenched around him. Her vision went white. She screamed his name—didn't care who heard.
The bass outside kept thumping. The party kept going. But in that room, there was nothing but them.
He followed a moment later. Groaned. Spilled into her. Collapsed on top of her.
Breathing hard. Hearts racing.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he pulled back. Looked at her.
"Your lady, huh?"
He almost smiled.
"Something like that."
She pushed at his chest. "You didn't ask."
"I'm asking now."
She laughed. Shaky. "Now?"
"Better late than never."
She looked at him. At his dark eyes. His swollen lips. The way he was still inside her.
"Ask me properly."
He pulled out. Tucked himself back into his jeans. Helped her off the desk.
Then he knelt.
"Nova."
She stared at him.
"What are you doing?"
He looked up at her.
"I don't know how to do this. I told you that. I don't know how to be soft. I don't know how to say the right things. But I know I want you. I know I don't want anyone else. I know I'll fuck this up and you'll still be there." He paused. "So I'm asking. Be my lady. Be mine. For real."
She looked down at him. At this man who punched people for her. Who showed up at her door with sunflowers. Who couldn't say the right words but kept trying anyway.
"Okay."
He raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"
"Yeah." She smiled. "Okay."
He stood. Kissed her.
The door rattled.
"Zay! You in there?"
Marcus.
Zay pulled back. Sighed.
"I'm busy."
"Mandy's looking for you. Says you owe her a dance."
"I don't owe her shit."
"Just come out here, man."
Zay looked at Nova. She shrugged.
"We should get back out there anyway," she said. "Mei's probably eaten Marcus alive by now."
He laughed. Real. Warm.
"Probably."
She fixed her clothes. He did the same. She smoothed her hair. He wiped a smudge of lipstick from his jaw.
He opened the door.
Marcus was standing there. Looking at them. A slow grin spread across his face.
"Y'all fucked."
"Shut up."
He laughed. Led them back to the party.
---
Mei was on the dance floor. Marcus joined her. They moved together. Easy. Fluid.
Nova watched from the edge. Zay's arm around her waist.
"She looks happy," she said.
"He looks scared."
"Good."
Zay laughed. Pulled her closer.
"Thank you for coming."
"You asked."
"I know. Thank you anyway."
She turned. Looked at him.
"You should dance with me."
"I don't dance."
"Tonight you do."
He looked at her. At the lights catching her hair. At the way she smiled at him like he was something worth smiling at.
"Okay."
He led her to the floor. Pulled her close.
The music changed. Something slower. Some old R&B track she didn't recognize.
They swayed. Barely moving.
"This is nice," she said.
"Yeah."
"You should do it more often."
"Dance?"
"Be."
He looked at her.
"What does that mean?"
"Just be. Stop trying to control everything. Stop trying to prove something."
He was quiet.
"I don't know how."
"Practice."
He pressed his forehead to hers.
"Okay."
She closed her eyes.
The music played. The party went on. And for the first time since she'd met him, Nova felt like she wasn't falling.
She was flying.
---
They left at two in the morning.
Dropped Mei off first. She kissed Marcus goodbye. Gave him her number.
"He better call," Nova said.
"He will."
They drove to Nova's apartment. Zay parked. Walked her up.
At the door, he paused.
"I should go."
"You can stay."
He looked at her.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
He stayed.
They lay in bed. Her head on his chest. His arm around her.
"You know," she said, "you still haven't asked me properly."
"What?"
"You said you'd do it right. Asking me to be your lady. You just kind of—told me."
He was quiet.
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow what?"
"I'll do it right tomorrow."
She laughed. Curled into him.
"Okay."
He kissed the top of her head.
"Goodnight, Nova."
"Goodnight, Zay."
She fell asleep with his heartbeat in her ear.
And for the first time, she didn't dream about falling.
She dreamed about flying.