Bella dreamed of hands.
Not touching—hovering.
Close enough that she could feel warmth, the faint brush of breath against her skin, the promise of contact suspended in a moment that stretched too long. In the dream, she turned toward Julian, her name already on his lips, and this time he didn’t stop.
She woke with her heart racing.
The apartment was quiet, dawn barely beginning to dilute the darkness outside her window. For a few seconds, she stayed very still, grounding herself in reality. Sheets. Ceiling. The muted hum of the city.
Not his hands.
Still, the feeling lingered, like an ache low in her chest, unfamiliar and sharp.
Bella pressed her palm to her sternum and exhaled slowly.
Get up, she told herself. Move. Do something real.
She showered, dressed, made coffee she barely
