The morning light crept through the lace curtains of Rosa's bedroom, casting a golden veil across the room Elena had slept in as a girl. The house smelled faintly of lavender and cedar, but there was something else now too dust and age, as though her grandmother's absence had already seeped into the walls.
Elena lay awake long before dawn, staring at the ceiling. Her body hummed with a restless energy she couldn't shake, as if the storm that had rolled through the night had left its charge inside her veins. She told herself it was the grief, the weight of coming home after so long, the strain of sorting through Rosa's affairs. But deep down she knew it was none of those things.
It was Damian.
The memory of him at Club Obsidian still burned through her like an ember refusing to die. His breath against her ear, the way his presence consumed the air around her, the dark promise in his eyes it haunted her in waves that left her clutching the sheets, biting back sounds that would betray her need.
Elena shoved the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her skin damp with sweat. Distraction. That's what I need. Something anything to occupy my hands, to silence my body.
Walking Through Town
By midmorning, she dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, tied her hair back, and set out on foot. Millbrook had barely changed in five years. The main street still boasted the same brick storefronts with sun-bleached awnings. The bakery Rosa had once taken her to as a child still displayed fresh loaves in the window. The air was damp from the storm, heavy with the scent of wet earth and coffee.
She walked quickly, nodding at familiar faces. Some people greeted her warmly, others with curiosity, a few with veiled judgment. She could almost hear the whispers: Elena Vasquez is back. The runaway. The one who left it all behind.
Her chest tightened, but she kept moving, ducking into the market to pick up supplies.
The produce aisle was crowded, and as she reached for a bag of apples, her hand brushed against another's. A man murmured a polite apology, but the brief contact sent a jolt through her like static electricity. Heat flushed her cheeks. God, what is wrong with me?
She gripped the apples tightly, trying to shake off the sensation. But everywhere she turned, her body betrayed her. The scent of oranges reminded her of Damian's cologne, sharp and intoxicating. The rich, roasted aroma from the coffee counter pulled her back to the warmth of his breath near her lips. Even the sound of laughter from a group of women made her chest ache with something that felt too much like longing.
The House and Its Ghosts
Back at Rosa's house, Elena forced herself into chores. She scrubbed the counters, sorted papers, dusted shelves that hadn't been touched in months. Every corner of the house carried her grandmother's presence, and yet her absence was so loud Elena wanted to scream.
In the sewing room, sunlight slanted across bolts of fabric Rosa had left neatly stacked. Elena ran her fingers over the silks and cottons, trying to steady herself. But the sensation of smooth fabric sliding beneath her fingertips became something else in her mind Damian's skin, warm and taut, his muscles shifting under her touch. She yanked her hand back as though burned, her breath catching in her throat.
"No," she whispered aloud, shaking her head. "Not here. Not now."
But her body didn't listen. Every brush of fabric was a phantom caress. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like footsteps approaching from behind. She pressed her palms flat against the sewing table, grounding herself, but it only reminded her of the way she had braced herself against the wall at Obsidian, his body caging hers in, heat radiating between them.
Her pulse throbbed low and insistent.
She slammed the sewing room door shut and stumbled back into the hallway, her body trembling with betrayal.
Family Ties
That afternoon, her aunt Marisol stopped by with a casserole and a tight hug. They sat in the kitchen, sipping coffee, talking about funeral arrangements and the inevitable question of what to do with Rosa's house.
"You could sell it," Marisol suggested gently. "But it would fetch more if you fixed it up first. Or" she hesitated, searching Elena's face"you could keep it. It was your home too."
Elena forced a smile. "I don't know yet. Manhattan is… complicated."
Marisol reached across the table, squeezing her hand. "You don't always have to live in the past or the future, mija. Sometimes the present is worth holding onto."
Elena nodded, though her chest was tight. Because the present wasn't something she could hold onto. Not when every moment was a battle against the memories her body wouldn't let her forget.
Nightfall
By evening, exhaustion dragged at her bones, but sleep was elusive. She wandered from room to room, each one alive with Rosa's ghost and Damian's shadow. Rain began again, pattering softly against the roof, a rhythm that felt too much like the beat of her pulse.
In the living room, she sat on the couch with a glass of wine, trying to lose herself in an old photo album. Rosa smiling at birthdays, Elena blowing out candles, family gathered around the sewing machine. The images blurred as her eyes stung with tears.
But no matter how she tried to anchor herself in grief, her body pulled her somewhere else. Her thighs pressed together unconsciously, a restless ache building no matter how hard she fought it. The wine warmed her blood, loosening the last of her resolve.
She closed the album and set it aside, her breath uneven.
Stop thinking about him. Stop wanting him.
But her body was already betraying her.
Her sweater clung to her skin, the wool scratching lightly against her chest in a way that made her nipples tighten. She shifted, trying to ease the ache, but it only deepened. Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms as though pain could ground her against the tide of desire.
Her mind betrayed her next: replaying the night at Obsidian in slow, unbearable detail. The heat of Damian's hand at her waist. His lips grazing the shell of her ear. The way his body seemed carved of shadow and flame as he leaned closer, closer
Elena gasped, her body arching against the couch cushions as though he were still there.
"No," she whispered again, her voice ragged. "Not like this."
She rose abruptly, pacing the room, trying to shake it off. She went to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass, watching the rain streak down. But even the storm reminded her of him wild, relentless, unstoppable.
Her reflection stared back at her: flushed cheeks, dark eyes burning with need she couldn't hide.
And in that moment, she knew distraction wasn't working. She could scrub floors until her hands bled, bury herself in family duties, walk the town until her feet ached but her body would not let her forget.
Because every fiber of her being remembered Damian. And every night she resisted only made her hunger sharper.
Betrayal of the Flesh
By midnight, Elena lay in bed, covers tangled around her legs, the rain drumming a rhythm against the roof. She turned onto her side, gripping the pillow as if it could anchor her. But the pillow smelled faintly of lavender, and somehow that only sharpened the ache.
Her thighs shifted restlessly, her skin hypersensitive to even the brush of sheets. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep.
But instead, her mind conjured Damian again his mouth close to hers, his hand sliding slowly down her arm, his voice low and dangerous: You don't want to resist me, Elena.
Her body betrayed her completely.
A trembling moan escaped her lips before she could swallow it back. Her back arched against the mattress, her skin hot and damp, her breath shallow. She gripped the sheets tightly, fighting the urge that clawed its way through her.
She didn't touch herself. She wouldn't. That would be giving in. But every muscle screamed for release, every nerve ending lit with fire. Her body throbbed in time with the storm, desperate and unrelenting.
And she realized then terrified and exhilarated that she wasn't fighting grief. She wasn't fighting loneliness.
She was fighting him.
Damian.
The man she had sworn to resist, the man she had run from five years ago.
And she was losing.
Elena pressed her face into the pillow, her body trembling as the storm raged on outside. She told herself she could last the night. That if she could just endure this, morning would bring clarity, calm, distance.
But deep down, in the desperate thrum of her pulse, she knew the truth:
She could resist a town's judgment.
She could resist the weight of family duty.
But she could not resist her own body.
And her body belonged to Damian.