---
His lips were still on mine. His breath warm, his grip firm. The taste of him lingered—mint and fire and something utterly, sinfully Jogo.
I wanted more. My fingers were fisting in his shirt, dragging him down to me, into me, my body trembling from the need to—
"Mina…"
His voice.
It sounded different now. Distant. Repeating.
"Mina?"
A little louder. A little firmer.
"Mina, wake up."
Wake up?
No.
No no no no—
Then a gentle shake. A hand on my shoulder. "Mina, hey. You okay?"
I gasped—eyes flying open—and the dream shattered like glass.
I blinked into soft morning light… and his face.
Real Jogo.
Not dream Jogo with kiss-me eyes and roaming hands, but the real one—bedhead, hoodie, and that boyish frown of concern.
He was crouched beside his makeshift bed on the floor, holding a tray.
"I, uh… made you breakfast."
I sat up too fast. My heart was still hammering, my lips tingling with ghost kisses.
I touched them unconsciously.
He noticed. "Bad dream?" he asked, his voice soft, worried. "You were squirming like crazy."
Bad? Oh no. No no no. If only he knew.
My face was probably on fire.
"Oh. Uh. Yeah. Nightmare."
Totally. A very sexy, torturous nightmare.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't push. "Here. Eat before it gets cold."
He held out the tray—eggs, toast, and orange juice like it was normal.
Like he hadn't just kissed the soul out of me.
Except… he hadn't.
Not really.
I took the tray, mumbling thanks, wishing I could sink through the floor.
He sat beside me on the bed, totally unaware of the emotional meltdown happening behind my eyes.
"Figured you could use some fuel," he said, leaning back on one arm casually. "We've got errands later."
I nodded dumbly, chewing toast like it was sawdust.
Because the worst part?
Even fully awake, I still wanted to kiss him.
---
I spent the rest of the morning in a semi-functioning daze.
Jogo was acting normal. Too normal. Like he hadn't invaded my subconscious and rocked my entire world in a dream so vivid I could still feel his fingers trailing down my spine.
And there he was, casually rinsing his dishes in the sink, hair still messy, hoodie hanging loose around his neck like a weaponized version of soft-boy charm.
"I'm heading to the store in a bit," he said, glancing at me. "You wanna tag along?"
"Yeah," I replied automatically.
Tag along. Tag along and pretend I hadn't dreamed about climbing him like a tree. Sure. Why not.
I needed air. Distance. Therapy. Possibly holy water.
And yet… when he tossed me one of his jackets because "you always get cold in the frozen aisle", I melted a little more.
---
Later, in the frozen foods aisle (because life has a sense of irony):
"Which pizza?" he asked, holding up two boxes. "Pepperoni or the one with pineapple you pretend to hate but always steal bites of?"
I blinked. "You remembered that?"
Jogo grinned. "You talk trash about pineapple, but your fork says otherwise."
I was staring. Just… staring.
Because he remembered. Little things. Stupid things. And I was not okay.
"That's weirdly sweet of you," I said, voice a little shakier than I meant.
His smile softened. "You're weirdly easy to read."
Not true. If he could read my mind right now, he'd be running for the hills.
---
Back home
We dumped the groceries on the counter. He headed to the fridge. I headed to my limit.
"I need a shower," I muttered, more to myself.
"Oh—" he paused, frowning. "Bathroom heater's still busted."
Right. The broken heater. Cold water. And no dignity.
"Can I… maybe use yours?" I asked, way too casual.
He blinked. "Yeah. Of course."
So there I was, ten minutes later, in his bathroom. Wearing his oversized towel. Wet hair dripping. Skin warm from the water but still prickling with nervous energy.
And for some reason—I don't know what possessed me—I walked out while changing. Like it was nothing.
But it wasn't.
Not anymore.
I was tugging his old t-shirt over my head, trying to slide into some shorts when I caught him glance up from his phone.
He looked. Then looked away.
Then looked back.
Slow. Confused. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
He tried to play it cool. "Uh. Sorry—should I step out?"
I smiled. Sweet. Too sweet.
"Nope. You've seen me like this a hundred times, right?"
He hesitated. "Yeah. Right…"
But he didn't sound sure.
And I swore his ears were turning red.
---
Later that night
We were on the couch again. Movie playing. Lights low.
I should've focused. I tried.
But I could feel him next to me. Breathing slow. Arm warm.
And all I could think about was the dream.
That kiss.
His hands.
The way he touched me like I was something precious and breakable and hot all at once.
I didn't realize I was staring until he turned slightly.
"What?"
I blinked. "Nothing."
He raised an eyebrow. "You've been weird all day."
"I'm always weird."
"This is new weird."
I tried to brush it off. Laugh. But my chest was tight.
Then I saw his hand resting beside mine on the couch cushion—just an inch away. Just a little reach and I could—
No.
I stood too fast. "I'm gonna head to bed."
Jogo sat up. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
Just emotionally unhinged, hopelessly in love, and recovering from the most sensual dream of my life, featuring you, thanks.
He watched me walk away.
But I didn't miss the way his eyes lingered.
---