I wake up to the wrong ceiling.
Dark wood. Clean lines. There is too much space above my head.
Dante’s ceiling.
My body realizes it before my brain catches up. Everything aches in slow, low pulses—thighs, hips, the tender inside of my lips. My skin smells like his soap and our sweat.
Images hit in flashes.
His mouth is on my throat.
My nails were in his back.
The way he’d said my name like it was both a curse and a prayer.
Heat floods my face.
The other half of the mattress is empty, but the dip where he slept is still warm. His pillow smells like him. His ring sits on the nightstand beside his watch and phone.
I’m naked under the sheet. There are faint red marks on my collarbone and hips, my body looking like a song someone underlined too hard.
My chest squeezes—some awful coll
