I knew something was wrong the moment I woke.
Not wrong in the way fear announces itself, sharp and immediate. It was subtler than that. The air felt different. Thicker. As though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
My body was warm despite the early hour, warmth pooling low and heavy in my stomach in a way that felt almost deliberate. I lay still beneath the sheets, staring at the carved ceiling above my bed, and tried to steady the restless rhythm of my pulse. The dreams had not been chaotic this time. They had been clearer. Slower. More intimate.
I remembered his hands.
Not fully. Not in detail.
But I remembered the feeling of being held as though the world outside that moment did not exist. I remembered the sensation of something brushing against my neck, not painful,
