Waking up was a condemnation.
My body burned as if I had slept under a blanket of red-hot iron, every muscle numb, every bone turned to lead. The air weighed heavy on my chest, suffocating, and a thin layer of sweat glued the sheets to my skin. A harsh gasp escaped my lips, trembling, as if emerging from a dream that had drained rather than rested me.
Even with my eyes closed, I knew where I was. Not from the deep silence, nor from the softness of the fabrics, but from the smell. That unmistakable mixture of freshly cut wood and tobacco, dark and penetrating, that seemed to slip into my blood and claim me as its own. Luciano. That scent was him, and it surrounded me like an invisible prison.
A sigh loaded with irony escaped my broken throat.
"Great... fainting seems to be becoming a habit," I murmured, barely a thread of voice.
