Day One.
Havana’s sheets were still damp when she dragged herself upright. Her thighs stuck together, raw and slick, her skin chafed and burning where his presence had once been. She moved like something broken—slow, weightless, a puppet cut from its strings. Her bones felt hollow, her chest caved in. Her breath came shallow and uneven.
She hadn’t eaten. She wasn’t sure when she last had. The thought of food made her stomach twist, a faint, pathetic growl echoing through her like an aftershock. It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered.
Nothing tasted like him.
She reached down, half-conscious, fingers brushing between her legs. She gasped—more out of ache than pleasure. Her fingers came back wet. Not just sweat. Not just the memory. His essence still lingered inside her, thick and clinging.
