I woke with a start.
The sheets were twisted around my legs, soaked with sweat. My chest was heaving, skin damp, heart racing.
And I was alone.
The other half of the bed was cold.
Empty.
No dents in the mattress. No scent on the pillow beside me. No hand on my stomach. No warmth at my back.
I sat up slowly, the air in the room too still.
Too silent.
Too clean.
My heart thudded harder, not from fear, but from disappointment. A slow, aching realization settled into my spine.
None of it had happened.
Not the second round.Not the kiss.Not the hand in my hair or the whispered breath behind my ear.Not the way he'd filled me again, harder, deeper, desperate to lose himself in me.Not the way he'd kissed me like I was real.Not the way he looked at me like he had already chosen.
All of it—every sigh, every thrust, every wordless moan—it had all been in my head.
A dream.
A lie my body told me while I slept.
I pulled the sheets tighter around myself, jaw clenched.
My body still ached.
I was still sore.Still sticky.Still ruined by the echo of something that never happened.
I didn't cry.
I just lay back down, eyes open, staring at the ceiling in the dark, trying to remember exactly how it felt—how his hand gripped my hip, how his mouth traced my spine, how the sound of his breath drove into me like a slow-burning fever.
But memory was cruel.
And dreams fade fast.
The longer I stayed awake, the more it dissolved.
The details blurred.
The warmth cooled.
The kiss faded.
It left me hollow.
And hard.
I pressed my thighs together, trying not to cry out. My cock was aching beneath the sheets, twitching with leftover arousal from the dream. Every shift of fabric made it worse.
I wanted to touch myself.
Wanted to finish what the dream had started.
But I couldn't.
Not like this.
Not when I knew it wasn't real.
Not when I could still feel the ghost of his hands but knew he'd never actually touched me that way.
I turned onto my side, pulled the pillow close, and pressed my face into it.
My body was burning.
But my chest felt cold.
Because I'd wanted it so badly.
Wanted him.
Logan.
The way he held me. The way he moved. The way he filled me and stayed.
I'd wanted to believe it could happen.
That it would happen.
But all I had was a mess between my legs and a throat full of silence.
I stayed like that for a long time.
Somewhere in the house, floorboards creaked. A cupboard opened. Water ran. Morning sounds. Real ones.
Logan was awake.
He was moving through the house like nothing had changed.
Because nothing had.
Because everything was the same.
Except me.
I was different.
I was raw.
I was haunted by something I'd never touched.
I sat up again, wiping my face with the back of my hand, then climbed out of bed and stripped the sheets. The scent of sweat and arousal clung to them. I bundled them into a corner and grabbed a hoodie, pulling it on even though the room was already warm.
I needed to look normal.
Even if I didn't feel it.
I walked past the guest room without looking in.
I didn't need to.
The door was closed.
And behind it, Logan was probably getting dressed. Brushing his teeth. Thinking about coffee. Not about me. Not about a dream he never had. Not about a kiss he never gave. Not about the second time he came inside me.
Because he hadn't.
Because none of it had happened.
And I needed to forget it.
Even if my body didn't.
Even if my heart still beat to the rhythm of his ghost.
The kitchen was quiet when I came in.
I moved automatically—boiling water, scooping grounds, pouring slow. The mug in my hand warmed my fingers, steadied them. I sat at the table, staring out the window while the silence curled around me. No movement. No footsteps yet. Just the faint ticking of the wall clock and the hum of the fridge.
I wanted to believe I'd forget the dream by morning.
But I remembered everything.
My body remembered too.
I was halfway through my first sip when I heard it—footsteps, soft, steady. Then the creak of the floorboard by the hall.
Logan entered the room.
I didn't look up right away.
Just kept sipping, heart climbing into my throat.
He walked past me, opened the cupboard, pulled out his usual black mug. No words. Just the familiar rhythm of his morning ritual. The scrape of ceramic. The sound of liquid filling his cup. The fridge door opened. Closed.
Then his voice.
"You're up early."
I shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."
He stood behind me, then walked slowly around the table. Sat across from me, exhaling steam off his coffee.
He looked at me.
Really looked.
I felt it.
His eyes moved—face, collarbone, neck, the drape of the hoodie.
Then, quiet and low: "You're really leaning into the look, huh?"
I blinked. "What?"
He smirked a little. "The whole thing. Hair. Hoodie. Posture."
His eyes lingered for half a second too long.
"You wear it well."
My stomach dropped.
I swallowed hard.
Said nothing.
And he just kept sipping his coffee, like he hadn't just knocked the wind out of me with a single line.
The compliment hung in the air, quiet but heavy. I tried to pretend I was just sipping coffee, but my throat was dry, and the heat in my cheeks refused to fade.
He didn't say anything else.
Just sat across from me, elbow on the table, hand wrapped around his mug like it was holding him together.
I stared at the rising steam between us, then forced the words out.
"Have you ever dated someone like me?"
He didn't flinch.
Didn't frown.
Didn't look away.
His thumb tapped once on the side of his mug.
Then he said, "No."
I nodded, heart sinking before I could stop it.
But then he added, "Doesn't mean I haven't thought about it."
My breath caught.
He looked at me over the rim of his cup, one brow slightly raised—like he wanted to see what I'd do with that. Like he'd just cracked the door open an inch to see if I'd step through.
I looked down at my hands.
I stared at him.
I said, quieter now. "Why not?"
His jaw flexed slightly.
"I don't know," he muttered. "Didn't seem like something I was supposed to want."
"But you did," I said.
A pause. Just long enough to sting.
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he looked me dead in the eye.
"I've wanted a lot of things I wasn't supposed to."
My fingers tightened around the mug. My stomach turned, slow and sharp.
I let myself ask the next one, even though I shouldn't.
"Do you still?"
He didn't answer at first.
Just exhaled, long and quiet.
Then—his voice low, rough, tired.
"Yeah."
One word.
But it landed like a hand on my skin.
And for a moment, the kitchen disappeared.
There was just the table between us.
And the weight of everything he wasn't saying.
Everything I'd dreamed.
Everything we both remembered.
Even if he didn't know it.
Even if I couldn't prove it.
Something had changed.
And this time, it was real.