ELENA
The dream clung to me like humidity—thick, lingering, inescapable.
I was in the grotto again. Derek’s hands were on my skin, reverent and rough in equal measure, his lips trailing down my throat as the moonlight spilled over us in silver sheets.
I could feel the weight of him, the strength of him, the way his breath hitched when I whispered his name. We were tangled in the heat of it, skin against skin, hearts drumming in a rhythm that felt older than memory.
But even in the dream, I heard myself say it again. That broken, breathless “I can’t—” just before I ran.
I jolted upright in bed, the sheets damp with sweat. My breath came in short, shallow gasps. For a moment, I thought I might still be dreaming—everything felt too vivid, too sharp. The feel of his hands, the weight of
