The first thing Lea felt when she woke again was… lightness.
Not the aching heaviness in her limbs from earlier, not the bone-deep exhaustion from her long sleep the day before. No dizziness. No fog. Just warmth—gentle, steady, familiar warmth—pressed behind her back.
The room was dim, painted in the orange glow of the 5 p.m. sun slipping through the curtains. A breeze filtered in softly through the cracked window, carrying the scent of evening air and something citrusy.
Hugo.
Lea blinked slowly, letting her eyes adjust. Her head rested on his bicep—heavy, warm, and slightly stiff from being used as her personal pillow for hours. His other arm draped securely around her waist, holding her as if afraid she would vanish again.
She breathed out, the corner of her lips lifting.
He looked peaceful when he slept. Softer. Younger. Like he'd finally allowed himself to rest after nearly two days of stubborn, obsessive, sleepless worry.
