Luca wasn't sure what woke him.
Maybe it was the thin gray light pressing through his blinds, maybe it was the muffled steps outside his bedroom. Or maybe it was the hollowed-out, dull ache behind his ribs that always lingered the morning after a panic attack.
He blinked up at the ceiling. It took a moment for the world to organize itself into shapes instead of floating, disconnected pieces.
It took a moment to register that he was in his room. The familiar shelves, his desk chair, and the hoodie he had stolen years ago from Enzo, which was left draped over the doorknob.
Everything felt too slow. His breathing, blinking.
He rolled onto his side and winced. His muscles were heavy and uncooperative. His chest felt tight, like someone had wrung him out. The room wobbled faintly around the edges, like the world hadn't fully reattached itself yet.
It was the classic post-attack fog. He and Enzo knew it all too well.
