I woke up slow, like surfacing from a thick, heady dream.
The air in the room was still.
Sunlight cut across the sheets in warm stripes.
My legs were tangled, sore, my lips swollen, and my thighs sticky with memory.
No.
No way.
It couldn’t have been real.
I bolted upright, my heart jackhammering.
My panties were on the floor.
My shirt clung to one shoulder, twisted.
There was a bruise blooming on my hip like a kiss pressed too hard.
I pressed trembling fingers to my mouth. It wasn’t dry. It tasted like him. Like him.
He was real.
He’d been here.
I looked toward the window—wide open.
Not cracked.
Not a dream.
Panic slithered through my chest, cold and fast. I wrapped the sheets around myself, legs wobbling as I stood. The apartment was silent.
And then I saw it.
Right by
