Hola :D!! Wanted to write something romantic, so since I was in no position for that in my stories, I wrote this! It's different than my other creations, a bit, in that it's first person . . . and that is due to watching The Tracey Fragment right before I began XD Also, the style itself is a little different. I've wanted to write Kiba, for so long, and this is the first, complete, story to be posted. Thanks to Ace for driving me to finish it XD!! God bless!! Review, please :D

Dancing in My Dreams

At night, I dance with him in my dreams. My heart beats against the seams. Yours would, too, when faced with his smile that gleams. Every touch makes my elated senses scream. But I only silently take in the scene.

He holds me close to him; my slender, petite frame presses up against his tall, tone body. His tan hand wraps around mine and his other stays at the small of my back. I wear a strapless black dress corseted with white ribbons and lace, and a flowered corsage adorns my pale left wrist, which rests against his back.

I rest my cheek against his chest as he gently guides me. My light blue eyes close in bliss. I feel his chin rest atop my charcoal black hair, which frames my face and chin. He wears a black tuxedo, tailored to fit him just right.

Gingerly, he takes his chin from atop my head, and releases my hand to cup the side of my face. His thumb traces under the curve of my bottom lip, and it flinches. My eyes open partially, looking into his thin black irises. Scruffy brunette locks lie close to his scalp, and red fang tattoos mark his cheeks. I smile and close my eyes, waiting for our lips to meet.

Then, I wake up, and I scream. Not squeal, scream. I grab a pillow and release an obnoxious, frustrated, bloodcurdling scream, and kick my legs beneath my blankets.

Now, notice that this is all in present tense. Why? This is what one would call a recurring dream. That means, I have had it many nights . . . AND IT'S DRIVING ME CRAZY! In my dream, I am happy, reveling in the romance of the moment. Which would be fine—dandy—except that I'VE HATED INUZUKA KIBA SINCE THE DAY I MET HIM!




So see my dilemma?

My name is Hasu Yuki, and my subconscious does not seem to agree with my conscious, pertaining my feelings for Kiba.

Here's the low-down of our past. I met him in elementary school. We were both five or six, maybe seven at the oldest. Since kindergarten, we had shared the same class, but did not become acquainted right away. It was Picture Day; I remember because my hair was longer and curled, then. Many kids were dressed in their Sunday-best.

My dress was bright, frilly, floral, and I had to wear white tights and black-buckled shoes. Already, I had been a little peeved because my mom and dad had forbidden me from playing, so as not to ruin my clothes.

It was cruel to have recess on Picture Day; it was teasing the kids who got all dressed up!

Since we were not allowed to play sports or anything rough like that, my girl friends and I played hand games such as Slide, Lemonade, or My Mother, Your Mother. Most of them were simply for two people, so we were paired up. I was with a pink-haired girl named Haruno Sakura, trying to see how long we could play Slide successfully, and how quickly our hands could move.

We got to a point where our hands were almost a blur as they smacked and clapped against one another. Giggles were escaping our lips, and I was so consumed in the game, I barely noticed the soft feeling of a hand disturbing the curls at the back of my neck.

Sakura and I laughed hysterically when I slipped up and our game was at an end. That laughter quickly turned to a cry of anguish as my hair was brutally pulled. My hand immediately had gone to that spot, and I twisted to face my attacker with watering eyes. It was Kiba.

"What'd you do that for?" I asked haughtily.

He laughed. "I wanted to see it go 'boing!' An' it did! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

I glared at him as he held his gut and continued to laugh. A fierce blush inflamed my cheeks. On impulse, I retaliated by grabbing a section of his hair and pulling. He shouted in pain whereas I sneered. He immediately responded by taking both hands and grabbing two sections of my hair, pulling.

"Ow! OW! You meanie!" I grabbed another clump of his hair.

"Stop pulling my hair, Ghostgirl!"

"You started it, Fangface!" I yelled back, stomping on his foot. He let out a yelp and stomped back. Around us, boys were chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!" whereas a lot of the girls seemed concerned. I think a few of them had gone along with the boys, but I had not been paying much attention due to my preoccupation with Kiba dirtying my shoes and messing up my hair.

"You aren't supposed to hit a girl, y'know!"

"I'm not hittin' ya, Ghostgirl! I'm stompin' and pullin' your hair!"

I remembered tackling him after that. Sort of. We rolled around in the asphalt, hurting each other in multiple ways, and destroying our nice clothes. Iruka-sensei then finally broke us up and gave us detention.

We did not relate famously through the elementary school years. Going to different middle schools, we never saw each other, so there was obviously no fighting. It was very different. I remember not liking my school very much, and withdrawing into myself; I became very shy, less outspoken. If someone had pulled my hair then, I probably would only have given them a dirty look.

Still, I spent a lot of my time outside of school keeping up my friendships from elementary school; a lot of them DID go to the same school as Kiba. During the first year of high school, it was the same situation, but then my parents decided to transfer me to the same school as them.

With friends: yay! With Kiba: boo, totally lame!

This morning, like the many ones preceding ever since the first day I attended that high school, I woke up and screamed into my pillow. It didn't quite muffle my sounds, so my parents surely heard, but they had become accustomed, and no longer burst into the room wondering my situation; I am sure they were annoyed, however.

I kept my pillow on my face for a minute after my scream ended, since I sometimes would vocalize twice. With I sigh, I then set my pillow aside. Someday, this routine will grow old. I yawned and tossed my blankets aside, as I had to get ready for school.

I went through my normal morning routine, which consisted of showering, drying my hair, brushing it, putting on mascara and pink lip gloss, and dressing. The girls' uniform of Sarutobi High School included a short, dark blue, pleated-skirt and knee high socks. Also, a white blouse with a dark blue sailor-collar lined with white. The cuffs of the short sleeves were the same as the collar, and the Konoha symbol, in dark blue, was just above it.

On my way out of the house, I grabbed my pink backpack and an apple. "An apple a day, keeps the doctor way," as the saying goes! If only it had the same effect on Kiba. Actually, the phrase most befitting of him is "speak of the devil, and he shall come."

I was sitting at my desk in English, reading a manga before class would start, when his bag hit the table of the desk next to mine. I cursed assigned seating; maybe the teacher had it in for me, because I was quite sure he knew Kiba and I didn't get along. Our dislike for each other was known campus-wide.

My eyes glanced up from my manga and looked at him side-long as he took out his textbook. He seemed to be in his usual good mood, grinning in that wolfish way that bared his long canines; if he weren't so tan, I would suspect vampirism.

Ohh, vampire. . . . I could almost feel Kiba's hot breath on my neck, teasing as his teeth grazed the bare skin. I willed myself to him, leaning my head back as I bared my throat. He cradled the small of my back, like a dancer dipping his partner. His other hand gently held the posterior of my head as his lips and teeth moved to the center of my throat. . . .

I resisted every urge to scream as an insane amount of red filled my visage. Those were very inappropriate thoughts to be having about him; sexy, but . . . well, I was "Ghostgirl," I supposed that a ghost and a vampire could somehow find a way to get a long as part of the supernatural. . . .

I glared at the manga in front of me and closed it; the genre was dark romantic fantasy.

"Morning, Snow Eyes." From the corner of my eye, I could see that Kiba slouched in his seat, facing my way. One of his arms was on the desk and the other was on the back of his chair. Through my peripherals, I could not see his face well, so I turned my head a little and gazed at him; he was looking at me.

An eyebrow was quirked, on my part. "'Snow Eyes'? Since when were the nicknames going to change? I was growing quite fond of Ghostgirl." (Ghostgirl X Vampire—THOUGHT DISMISSED!) "'Snow Eyes' almost sounds nice, except for the fact that my eyes are blue, not white."

He smirked. "Fond, huh? Isn't that all the more reason to change it?" There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. "And I've noticed you have quite the icy stare, when you're really pissed. But, 'Ice Eyes' just doesn't work as well."

"Ice Eyes" . . . "Snow Eyes" . . . okay, I could see his point. It sure beat "Ghostgirl," by all stretches. "But why are you changing it to something nice like that and not something like . . . 'Pasty'? You're going against the unwritten, unspoken contract between us."

He laughed. "Unwritten and unspoken? Doesn't that make it non-existent . . .? I don't know . . . your skin's not pasty, so much as milky . . . almost like semen." Uh-oh, there's that malevolent sneer again; apprehension settled in my arms, for normally, this was followed by a perverse remark. "How do you feel about 'Semen Skin'?"

In complete perturbation, my eyes widened astronomically and my shoulders automatically locked themselves in raised positions; ewwwww creepy crawly feeling! "Don't you dare start that one, Fangface! I'll . . . I'll—" Nothing that I could retaliate with was coming to mind.

Our exchanges were currently more one-sided, and certainly less physical. We never raised a hand toward one another, and I was almost always the one left perturbed and irritated. When my ever-so-elusive wit was with me, and I did have a response, it was often pretty lame or it didn't affect him.

Damn shyness.

My cheeks felt like volcanoes, and I was sure that my eyes had the most pathetic, puppy-dog glimmer to them as they silently pleaded. He was smiling back at me, but it now hinted more at amusement than the previous mischief.

"Snow Eyes," he insisted.

Swallowing, the corner of my mouth twitched into a slight curve. The bell rang, so I turned my face toward the blackboard and our teacher. I let out a tiny, practically inaudible sigh of relief.

Hatake Kakashi, our teacher, was in his early thirties and had silver hair lopsidedly atop his head. A man of mystery, no one on campus had ever seen his naked face, because he hid the lower-half beneath an immunization mask. His left eye was covered by a black patch, but the other one seemed passive or bored a majority of the time. Although he always had his eyes on the pages inside his orange novel (Kiba suspects it's of a dirty variety), he had the uncanny affinity for multi-tasking and was alert when he seemed most relaxed.

Basically, we couldn't get away with crap in this class if we tried.

While his mystery was alluring to most women, I suppose that it was also something bittersweet, when she could never get close enough to him to unlock his mystery; he was unmarried, despite that many women wanted to pursue him.

Huh. Ehehe . . . maybe I shouldn't objectify my teacher's attractiveness . . . (gross!) Well, at least it got my mind off of Kiba and "Semen Ski—" Oh bother!!

"Partner projects," Kakashi-sensei began simply. "There are a lot of choices for the medium that you can choose from, but check in with me; I don't want more than two pairs using the same medium. Everyone will work with the person sitting next to them. Row one and two, three and four, five and six."

I looked at my right. Since I was in row two, my partner should have been in row one, but it was an empty seat. I glanced around; Kiba's partner was absent, as well. Then, were spoken the words most taboo: "Yuki. Kiba. Since both of your partners are absent, you'll be working together." His visible eye closed in a type of contoured smile and continued with the explanation. "These projects will be done at home. . . ."

Kiba suppressed his laughter, "Pfft!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


Hyuuga Hinata; she's one of my best buddies, a shy girl like myself. She, however, was a little more extreme, what with a stutter that was more evident around non-friends and having the compulsion to push the pads of her pointer fingers together when embarrassed. She wore her azure locks long and her bangs stopped in a straight cut just above her eyebrows. Her skirt was longer than uniform, as well.

In front of Sarutobi High, there was a flagpole, and around three sides of that, a brick wall was present. I leaned my back against it, hunched forward. It was after school, so there weren't many of my peers hanging around; in the front of the campus, at least.

Hinata was standing parallel to the wall, waiting for her cousin, Neji. As for me. . . .

After I told her of the occurrences in English, fortunate and unfortunate, she smiled. "'Snow Eyes' is a cute nickname. . . ."

Behind the curtain of my hair, my eyes narrowed as the corners of my mouth curled up in a grin. Heat bleed into my cheeks. Admittedly, I liked that name quite a bit. I couldn't agree more with Hinata, then.

"Um . . .," she began. I dithered the angle of my head up and toward her, a smidgen, and saw that she had averted her eyes to the corner where the brick met the cement. She was indulging her compulsion, as her arms held her bag to her chest, and she pushed the pads of her pointers together. "Ha-have you ever thought that . . . that maybe Kiba-san might . . . l-like you? Th-that he might've l-liked you, all along?"

The carmine pigments marking my countenance manifested themselves more. The sclera of my eyes completed showed around my irises. Absurd! He was the one that started this whole thing by pulling my hair! Funny way to show someone you like them!

"N-nonsense. . . . That's ridiculous!" I said aloud. "Our first meeting included a total brawl!"

"Well, you see. . . . Everyone on . . . on campus thinks that you . . . that you two are s-secretly dating, or that it'll be a matter of time before . . .," the blush on her face deepened, ". . . you two a-are . . . are locked in a . . . closet . . . and . . . um. . . ." She trailed off, blushing to the extreme, but I could guess what she was saying.

Darkness surrounded Kiba and I, letting in only enough light to allow us to barely make out other's features. But that didn't matter. My eyes closed as his lips contacted my cheek gently. He searched for my mouth, bringing his lips lower, until they brushed against my jaw line. He followed the slant to my chin, and as the warmth began to overtake my body, adjusted his angle so that his top lip—

Grrrrrrrrrrrr. . . .

I brought up my right hand, brushing my fingertips against my jaw line. My teeth clenched. "But I hate him! H-a-t-e, hate him! What the hell would make anybody even BEGIN to think that I have even the smallest pillage of affectionate feeling for him? Huh? Or that he has any for me?"

She looked at her fingertips, which were still wrestling with one another. "W-well, um . . . l-little kids, normally, wi-will tease the ones th-they like . . . and . . . um . . . t-try to make it look like . . . like they don't like them.

"A-and you . . . you, um, always try to—deny things, so strongly. . . . You've, um, had this . . . grudge since w-we were kids . . . w-when you were away, from him, you became i-introverted, withdrawing i-inside yourself . . . because he's a . . . a big part of you." She found the nerve to look at me, but hunched her shoulders. "A lot of people think . . . think that you g-guys f-fight like lovers, a-and . . . well, in y-your, um, English class, today, it . . . it sounded kind of like, flirting, to me. Uh . . . a lot of your 'fights,' do. . . ."

Hand still at my jaw, my eyes widened fractionally. FLIRTING?

"Y-yuki-chan . . . I-I agree with them. . . . I . . . um . . . I think you love Kiba."

I dropped my bag. Every single part of my body froze, every joint locked. The breeze blew through my hair, and I blinked as a strand brushed against my eyes. I wanted to deny it. So badly, I did. But if I denied too strongly, wouldn't that just defeat the purpose and reinforce her opinion? The idea of me being in love with Kiba was just so ludicrous.

At night, I danced with him in my dreams.

Ghostgirl X Vampire.

He followed the slant to my chin, and as the warmth began to overtake my body. . . .

I swallowed.

Nearby, the door to the Main Office building opened, and Kiba exited through. My back was to him, but I could assume that he came from that exit. He approached us, and I could hear his grin as he said, "Hey, Snow Eyes. I got detention for skipping out on Fifth period. So, we doin' this at my place, or yours?"

My face was red, so I only partly turned his way, not wanting him to see the enkindled hues. He and I had decided right away to work on our project (the sooner it got done, the less time we had to spend with one another, theoretically), so that's the reason why I had been waiting out front.

"Umm. . . ." It was taking a moment for my thoughts to process. There was no way Hinata could be right . . . right? "Uh . . . well . . . I don't w-want to wake up one morning with teepee, all over my house, so . . . uh . . . y . . . yours," I said.

Crap. I stuttered.

"Cool. My car's in the Student Parking Lot."

"Alright . . . cool. . . ."

I hated being nervous. It's the most uncomfortable feeling there is, in league with embarrassment. In a lot of cases, though, the emotions do go hand in hand. Both make your heart wildly race, or just completely stop for consecutive seconds. Your muscles tense in apprehension. Often, your eyes close because you can't bare witness.

Admittedly, my feelings weren't as extreme at the moment, but they were still very torturous! I was more tense than the strings wound on a guitar. I tried to keep my eyes off of Kiba as much as possible, mostly staring at the coffee table in his living room. On it, the supplies for our poster were present.

The table was short enough that the both of us were able to kneel on either side of it. My body was situated between that and the sofa whereas he sat parallel to the table, resting an arm on it. He was cutting out something in red construction paper while I titled our poster with fancy font. Akamaru, Kiba's large, white dog, was laying on the carpet nearby.

Why the hell did Hinata have to go and say something like that? I doubted it was a truth, but at the same time, it made sense. These thoughts that I've been having lately, they don't exactly seem like they'd belong to someone who hates the subject of their dreams. We look so happy, when we're dancing in my dreams.

But those are only dreams. And whenever I wake up, I'm screaming.

Hmm. Now here's a strange thought: maybe it's that same principle as what Hinata was talking about; how little kids will tease the ones they like to make it seem otherwise. Is it possible that I've been trying to fool myself; my subconscious is saying, "Go get him!" whilst my conscious says, "Hell no!"?

But which is more closely linked to the heart?

Ugh. I hated him right now for giving me cause to think this much. Damn Kiba.

I paid little attention when one of the thin, black marker pens was taken up by him and he began writing on the paper he had cut out. When he spoke, I was trying very hard not to mess up a very ornate F. "You should grow your hair out again."

My hand holding the pen froze in the midst of a curve, and I raised my head, looking at his profile. A blush was apparent on my face. "Why? So you can have something to pull?"

He snorted and turned his head, a light smirk playing on his lips. "You still hold a grudge against me for that? It's been eight years. That's obsessive."

I frowned. "I'm not obsessed with you!"

He raised a brow. "I didn't say anything about being obsessed with me."

Damn, he was right. Swallowing, I quickly recovered and looked back at my work, only to come to an irritating realization. Because I'd left the marker in the same spot, ink continued to bleed, and in the letter there was a large glob of black uncharacteristic of the font I was trying to make. With a frown, I crumpled up the paper and started a fresh one.

"Smooth," he commented.

"Shut up!" I blushed. I kept my head bowed, eyes on the paper before me, in hope that he would not see the color of my cheeks.

There was a pause as we worked in silence. I'm not sure why he didn't say anything, but I decided that I'd done enough to incriminate myself of something that I wasn't sure I felt . . . or was I sure, but trying to deny it to myself?

Ugh. More thinking. I was sure I'd end up with a headache, at this rate.

This time, when Kiba addressed me, I kept my eyes on my work. It was his stupid fault for distracting me beforehand that I messed up the first one and now had to do it all over again. Hmph. "You wanna know something weird, about that day we met?"

Concentrating on the first letter, I said, "Yeah, sure."

"I had a crush on you."

My pen skidded off the paper. My mouth went dry. H-huh. . . . Hinata had been right. Plus one for her. As the familiar heat of embarrassment filled me, I nervously laughed and replied, "I . . . is that so . . .?"

Through the peripherals of my vision, since I was still looking at the paper before me (I'd have to start over again!), I saw his body move a smidgen, as if he nodded. "Yep." Silence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "Wanna know something even weirder?"

I was afraid to say yes. So, so, so afraid. But I raised the level of my gaze, peeking at him through the curtain of my bangs. I hoped my blush was hidden, as well, especially since he seemed quite laid back. The only difference than how he normally acted, was that he had the lightest blush creeping onto his cheeks, as well. Anxiously, I bit my bottom lip. "Um . . . y-yes."

He looked at me with a wolfish grin. "I still do . . . Snow Eyes."

I flinched, staring at him with exponentially wider eyes. I raised my head completely, releasing my bottom lip as my jaw dropped minutely. I had anticipated the answer, but anticipating and hearing are two entirely different things.

Two points for Hinata.

At night, I danced with him in my dreams.

Ghostgirl X Vampire.

He followed the slant to my chin, and as the warmth began to overtake my body. . . .

"I still do . . . Snow Eyes."

. . . . Make that . . . three. . . .

Shyly, I raised my hand, brushing my hair behind my ear. My jaw picked up, allowing me to form a smile as my lashes hovered over my eyes. There was no mistaking that he could see the cherry-esque hue coloring my face in its entirety. "Really?" I managed to say.

He took something and tossed it to me. A paper red heart with a cross on it landed onto the paper I previously had been working on. "Cross my heart, hope to die."

I took my left hand, the one not holding the marker, and brushed the tips of my fingers against the heart. I couldn't help but smile. So cheesy! But . . . so cute. Somehow, words came to me. "Suppose . . . suppose that I l-like you, too." I looked at him again; he still wore a smirk, but the brows were raised. ". . . what would you do?"

He stood and held his hand toward me. I stared at it, turning redder. "Stand up. Maybe I'll show you."

Show me? Hehe . . . I wonder how. . . .

Absolutely forbidding myself to daydream just then, I set down the marker and reached my right hand toward him, tentatively resting it into his grasp. His hand closed around mine; the contact between our skin sent a tingling warmth from his palm, up my arm.

He guided me around the coffee table until I was in front of him, and pulled me close, embracing me. His one hand still held mine, but the other was wrapped around my shoulders, holding me a marginal distance to him. I smiled, leaning my head against his chest. My eyes closed, as he gently guided me into a slow dance, resting his chin on top of my head.

At night, I dance with him in my dreams. My heart beats against the seams. Yours would, too, when faced with his smile that gleams. Every touch makes my elated senses scream. But I only silently take in the scene.

It was just like my dream, only different. It was simple, but romantic. No corsage, no tux . . . he and I, in our school clothes, dancing to imaginary music. Not only was it euphoric, but even more so than that dream.

I felt his chin leave my head, and the blush on my face deepened. My heart rate was accelerating, just a little bit quicker than his, and I could only imagine how feverish my cheek must have felt, when he released my hand and cupped the side of my face, tenderly.

In disbelief, I opened my eyes. Butterflies and other fluttering feelings flitted around the inside of my stomach. My gaze met his; mine widened with near-terror and his pleasantly narrowed in a light smirk.

"Heh," I heard from him faintly, before he began to narrow the gap between our mouths. The tan of his eyelids began to close over thin black irises, so I closed my eyes, as well, waiting for our lips to meet. . . .

Instead . . . Fangface landed a big, wet, sloppy kiss on my cheek!

My eyes opened immediately. He was making fun of me, the jerk! I glared at him and forced myself out of his hold, not even bothering to take into account that his expression was quite shocked. I was too embarrassed.

I turned away from him, trying to hide my shame, as he said, "Snow Eyes. . . ."

I didn't turn back, I remained about-face from him, crossing my arms. He said nothing, for a long time, and neither did I.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And then, I felt it. A slight tug on my hair, not hard enough to hurt, but playful, just hard enough to catch my attention. He called me "Snow Eyes," again. I didn't respond, still, but my glare did falter. The tugging on my hair, while minutely amusing, I'll admit, was becoming an annoyance, until I felt his hand change to cradle the back of my neck, and he turned my head to face him.

He had a genuinely contrite look on his face, with the dash of smirk that would never go away. Before I could react, he pulled our faces closer, and our lips contacted gently. I was immediately captured.

My anger melted away, the hot rage being replaced with that somehow cool heat of bliss. It swam into me, from the contact of our lips, despite that it was a closed-mouth kiss. His free hand went to my arms, breaking their interlocked clasp, and held onto my hand. I closed my eyes, hoping that I could convey the same warmth that he was giving me.

Thirty seconds ago was already forgotten.

At night, I dance with him in my dreams. My heart beats against the seams. Yours would, too, when faced with his smile that gleams. Every touch makes my elated senses scream. But I only silently take in the scene.

Sometimes, I still have that dream. But it often changes, because I have something better: reality. And when I do have that dream, I wake up, and smile. No squeal, no scream. Turns out, that response was one that seemed so uniform, I performed it automatically when I thought that I hated him.

Hinata was right on four points:

Kiba had a crush on me when we were kids.

He feels the same for me now.

Our "fighting" . . . well, according to Kiba, half the time, he really was flirting with me.

And me . . . as I hold that paper heart, I can only say that I love him . . . more than my conscious, or my subconscious, could ever understand.

End of in Dancing in My Dreams

Thanks for reading! God bless :D Please, review! Or PM me.