I wake with a start, sitting up and running a hand through my tangled hair with a shaky sigh. My body feels sticky with sweat as I climb out of my bed, and that familiar ache lingers between my legs—the unmistakable aftermath of the dream that still has my heart racing.

I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror across my bedroom—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and a vulnerability I hate seeing in myself. 

I had hoped sleep would be my sanctuary from thoughts of Vincent. Instead, it ...