l wake up with someone else’s heartbeat under my ear.
For a split second, before consciousness catches up, it’s seven years ago. Cheap sheets. Brooklyn traffic. Dante’s arm heavy around my waist, his hand splayed over my stomach like he’s afraid I’ll float away.
Then the mattress shifts under me, firmer. The air smells like salt and expensive detergent, not city grime. The sound outside isn’t honking or sirens—it’s the sea, far below.
And the chest under my cheek is a lot more defined than it used to .
My eyes snap open.
I’m in his bed.
My brain explodes in a thousand alarms at once.
I jerk back so fast that I almost roll off the edge. His arm tightens automatically, hauling me steady before I can fall.
“Relax,” he says, voice gravel‑rough with sleep.
Relax.
I shove at him hard.
