Jojo’s P.O.V.
I stared at the ceiling, my eyes bloodshot, my body feeling like a limp noodle that had been left in boiling water for too long. I hadn’t slept. Not even a wink. Not even the tiniest, microscopic amount of sleep had blessed me with its mercy. No, instead, I had spent the entire night being tormented by the ghost of Raven Miller—not the literal kind (though at this point, nothing would surprise me anymore), but the kind that lingered in my head, refusing to be evicted.
His eyes. Those piercing, dark brown eyes that had once looked at me like I was his entire world. They were inescapable, even behind the safety of my closed eyelids. His hands—God, his hands—the way they had known exactly where to touch me, how to hold me, how to make me melt like butter on a hot pan. And his
