ELENA’S POV
With my face buried in his chest, his scent filtered into my nostrils, and I couldn’t help but inhale a lungful of it. I didn’t know why, but it was both calming and intoxicating.
Before I could think, before I could stop myself, I was kissing him. London. His name echoed in my mind like a prayer, a plea, as my lips met his in a rush of heat and desperation. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t careful.
It was raw and desperate, a floodgate breaking open after months of holding back—grief, fear, gratitude, longing—all of it crashing into this one moment. His lips were warm, firm, and achingly familiar, and for a heartbeat, the world didn’t exist. It was just him. Just us.
The way his hands gripped my waist, pulling me closer, told me he felt it too—this magnetic pull, this need to be c
