(First-Person POV)
I woke to the smell of rain and cedar.
For one delirious moment, I thought I was back in the dream—the one where someone's arms wrapped around me, where warmth anchored me against the ache that had torn through my body all night. Then I opened my eyes.
The dream was real.
Leonardo's jacket lay across me like a blanket. His scent had soaked into the fabric, heavy enough to drown out the sharp trace of my own heat.
Oh no.
I sat up too fast, head spinning. Every muscle aches; the sheet clung to my skin, damp with sweat. My body remembered everything that my mind wanted to forget—the panic, the pull, the way his voice had threaded through the chaos until I'd clung to it like oxygen.
He had seen me at my worst. He had touched me. He had helped me.
And I hadn't asked.
The humiliation hit hard enough that I bit down a groan.
The door creaked open before I could even plan my escape.
"Awake?"
His voice. Calm, low, far too composed.
He leaned against the frame, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from the shower. The storm outside threw pale light across his face, carving shadows along his jaw. He looked nothing like the man who had held me together hours ago—except for the eyes. Those were the same, sharp and unreadable.
"I— I'm sorry," I stammered. "I didn't mean— It just happened—"
"I know." He stepped inside, setting a glass of water on the bedside table. "You should drink."
I reached for it with shaking hands. The glass clicked against my teeth.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He didn't answer. Just studied me, silent. That silence was worse than anger.
Finally he said, "You should have told me your suppressants were running low."
"I didn't think it mattered."
"It matters," he said, too softly.
I couldn't meet his eyes. If I did, I'd see the memory of what happened—me trembling against him, the sound of my own ragged breathing.
"I'll find somewhere else to stay," I blurted. "Today."
"No."
The word cut through the air.
I froze. "No?"
He crossed the room in three slow steps and stopped beside the bed. "You're in no condition to leave yet."
"Leonardo—"
"Besides," he said, and I caught the faint edge beneath his calm, "we still have things to discuss."
Something cold slid through my stomach. "Discuss?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper—creased, familiar.
My breath caught. The letter.
He turned it over between his fingers. "Where did you get this?"
"I— I found it."
"Where?"
"In a box," I whispered. "Back when I still lived across the street."
His expression didn't change, but the air did. The weight of it pressed against my lungs.
"So it's true," he said quietly. "You were the one in that apartment."
There it was. The truth laid bare.
I could have lied again, twisted the story, blamed the previous owner of this body—but I was so tired of running from ghosts that weren't even mine.
"Yes," I said. "I was."
He exhaled, long and controlled. "Why?"
Because the woman who used to own this face had lost everything. Because she'd turned obsession into survival. Because I'd woken up in her mess and tried to scrub it clean and somehow ended up here, tangled in the same man she could never have.
None of that was something I could say out loud.
"I wanted to start over," I said instead. "But it seems the past doesn't let me."
He studied me for a long time, eyes dark as the storm beyond the window.
Finally he set the letter on the nightstand and said, "You should rest."
"That's it?"
"For now." He turned to leave, paused in the doorway. "I meant what I said last night—you didn't cause trouble. But next time, tell me before you fall apart in my hallway."
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut.
I sat there, clutching the blanket to my chest, heart beating hard enough to bruise. The letter lay beside the glass of water, edges fluttering in the breeze from the half-open window.
Outside, thunder rolled.
Inside, I whispered to no one, "He knows."
And yet he hadn't thrown me out.
That terrified me more than hate ever could.