I woke up with the faintest trace of his name on my lips. Branson.
It was ridiculous. I had dreamt about him—his eyes, his voice, the way he had leaned close enough for my skin to remember the heat of him without a single touch. I couldn’t recall the specifics of the dream, only the feeling: that sharp, intoxicating blend of fear and desire. And when I opened my eyes to the pale morning light spilling through the blinds, the sensation was still there, pulsing through me like an aftershock.
I tried to bury it in routine. Shower. Coffee. Clothes. Makeup. Work bag. The motions were supposed to ground me, but instead, they just emphasized the static humming under my skin. My body was restless. My thoughts were restless.
He knows my name.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee
