I laughed and snapped a picture.
But when the room finally went dark, and the sugar crash hit, and the buzz of movies faded?—
My mind didn’t quiet.
It drifted.
Uninvited.
Uncontrolled.
Straight to him.
The dream didn’t start like a dream.
It started like memory.
The locker room.
The smell of sweat and winter air trapped in his hoodie.
Leo’s hands on either side of my face?—
Warm.
Certain.
Dangerously familiar.
His breath brushing my cheek.
The way he said my name like a secret he wanted to swallow.
His lips skimmed mine—not kissing, not yet—just hovering in that space that makes your whole body tighten in anticipation.
My stomach dipped.
My pulse stuttered.
He whispered something against my skin—something I couldn’t make out—but the sound of it sank into me like heat.
And then the dream tipped.
Shifted.
Turned molten.
His hands slid down my waist, fingers tracing the hem of my shirt, leaving a line of fire in their wake.
My breath caught.
His forehead pressed to mine, his nose brushing my cheek, slow, soft, aching.
I felt the warmth of his chest against mine.
The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
The way his thumb skimmed my bottom lip, gentle and reverent, like he was memorizing me.
