Ayla
The bed was cold.
I reached out before I was even fully awake, fingertips grazing empty sheets that still held the shape of his body. A dent in the pillow. A ghost of warmth. Nothing more.
He was gone.
Relief bloomed first—sharp and immediate. I wasn’t sure I could face him this morning. Not after what we’d done. Not after how I’d begged, touched myself, let him touch me. My body had responded like it knew him, craved him, even loved him.
But my heart?
My heart was still locked behind ribs that didn’t know how to open.
I sat up slowly, wincing at the soreness between my legs, at the dull ache that lived in every bone. The heat had ebbed, yes—but the memory of it clung like smoke. I could still feel the imprint of his hands, the way he’d held me like I belonged to him. I touched
