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But even as his mouth trails to my jaw and my breathing turns uneven, the messages keep pressing in at the edges.

I miss you. Fuck, I miss you so much, Spitfire.

A dull ache settles in my ribs.

Dante shifts above me, sensing it immediately.

“Maksim,” he murmurs against the corner of my mouth.

I shake my head.

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Please. Don’t stop.”

His forehead rests against mine.

His breathing is uneven now, but his eyes are clear when I force myself to look at him.

“Tell me what you need,” he says softly.

“I need you,” I reply, overwhelmed. “I really need to feel you.”

I pull him down before he can see my face properly. His mouth finds mine again, softer this time, but I am the one who makes it frantic. I grip his shoulders, then his hair, trying to anchor myself in something real.

He breaks the kiss and trails a slow, burning path from the sensitive hollow beneath my jaw down along the cord of my neck. His stubble grazes my skin, rough and grounding, and one of his large, calloused palms glides over my bare ribs, his thumb brushing slowly along my flank. The heat of him feels good. His weight over mine is solid, comforting, and patient. It’s everything intimacy is supposed to be.

I arch my back into his touch, forcing my eyes shut, silently begging my body to just dissolve into this. Focus on the room. Focus on the smell of cedarwood. Focus on the man who actually chose to show up.

And then, my brain violently misfires.

The pressure in my head shifts before it reaches my skin. Suddenly it isn’t Dante’s mouth I feel; it’s a different one that’s firmer and more deliberate. The kind of kiss that used to linger as if it had something to prove. A hand that didn’t just touch but held. Guided. Claimed without needing to ask twice.

My breath catches before I can stop it.

Dante kisses the hollow beneath my ear, and I flinch.

Not away from him.

Toward a memory.

My stomach turns.

No.

I close my eyes tighter, but it only makes the past clearer. Tristan’s voice. Tristan’s hands. The way he used to make the rest of the world go quiet, not because it was safe, but because I was willing to disappear inside him.

Dante kisses lower, across my collarbone, and my body reacts on instinct—subtle, traitorous. My nervous system answering to a memory, not the man above me, and the realization makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest.

This was supposed to be simple. A way to feel wanted without all the noise currently on my head. Instead, every point of contact feels layered with something I didn’t invite. Dante’s hand moves with growing confidence, and I let him. I even shift into the touch, chasing the present on purpose, trying to overwrite the ghost with heat, pressure, and the undeniable fact that someone else is here.

It only half works.

Because underneath the warmth of Dante’s mouth and the steady weight of his body, there’s still that quieter, more devastating awareness: my head hasn’t caught up with the life I’ve been trying to build. Some part of me is still braced for a voice that isn’t in this room. Still shaped by a touch that hasn’t reached for me in months.

Dante lifts his head slowly, the movement unhurried, as the hitch in my breathing cuts through the quiet room.

I bite down hard on my lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of copper, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the high ceilings, the warm Italian lamplight, and the suffocating wave of guilt burning through my veins like acid.

“Maksim?” His voice is a low, gentle murmur against my collarbone.