Nothing, because he has a panic attack and wakes up.

Pascal opened his eyes.

The light of the morning sun was peeking through the curtains. He was back in his significantly shittier 30-year-old body. A quick glance at his phone on the nightstand showed that he'd gotten, as promised, a full 8 hours of sleep... and therefore would be too rested to drift back into dreamland.

Pascal let out a long, strangled groan of frustration and pounded a fist against the bedsheets, limply and pointlessly. Only then did he notice that his heart was racing and every nerve of his skin felt strained - the telltale signs of a panic attack.

Alone in his bed, all Pascal could do was weather the incoming storm of bad thoughts about how he'd completely blown the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Pascal's real life wasn't anything to write home about. He was living with one of his divorced parents because, after a complete emotional and mental breakdown caused by years of repressed childhood trauma and internalized abuse, he could no longer even go outside for more than a couple of hours before needing to retreat to the solitude and quiet of his home and room.

He did some freelance copy-editing for "work from home," but it was barely enough to pay for maybe a week's worth of food. For the rest, he depended on the patience and generosity of the others who would tolerate him. (Which wasn't everyone - he'd definitely burned bridges with a few extended family members already because they got tired of his bullshit.) Getting on food stamps or disability was a challenge, too, because his problems were all mental and he had trouble justifying his challenges to himself, let alone a bureaucrat looking for any excuse to turn people away or kick them off two months down the line.

It was a demoralizing life. How he'd managed to hold on despite everything amounted to little more than sheer will to survive, the certainty that no matter how bad things got there was still hope if he held on and pushed through it. Not that he had a lot to show for his perseverance.

The only recent stroke of good fortune was in the form of that strange, hardcover, red-leather-bound book sitting on his desk.

He wasn't even sure where it had come from. It had simply shown up on the porch one day. Not even in a package or anything, just exposed to the elements. Ever the bookworm since grade school, Pascal had instinctively brought it in since he didn't want it to get damaged. Then he'd opened the book, found only one sentence printed inside, and then thought little of it for the rest of the day.

Naturally, now he understood the book better. It was magical, there was no doubt about that. No dream of his own subconscious construction could have been so detailed, so real to the touch. Nor would he remember it all so clearly long after waking.

After breakfast, Pascal confronted the book again with some trepidation. He felt like he had let the Scarlet Consort down by bailing out of what was supposed to be his greatest fantasy. Would she feel rejected? Would she refuse to let him back into the dream? After hemming and hawing for what felt like ages, Pascal finally opened up the book to the first page.

A new erotic fantasy is born...
No harm, no foul. ♥

Pascal had to chuckle and let out a sigh of relief as soon as he saw the text. Of course she would understand. She knew he hadn't bailed out on her on purpose. And tonight, he'd return to the dream and they'd figure something out.

That thought made it a little easier to get through the rest of his mundane day.