The first thing I noticed was the scent—sharp, citrusy, and clean. Lime. It clung to the bedsheets and pillows like a whisper, subtle yet persistent, and instantly recognizable. I knew that smell. Hugo.
My eyelids fluttered open slowly, still heavy from exhaustion, and the moment my gaze adjusted to the warm morning light filtering through the curtains, I froze. My heart skipped a beat.
There—hanging proudly on the wall directly opposite the bed—was a massive framed photograph. Hugo. His signature confident smirk, his coal-black hair tousled to perfection, his silver eyes boring into the camera like he owned the entire world. And maybe he did. The sheer size of the portrait made it impossible to miss. I didn't even need to turn my head to know exactly where I was.
This was his room. Hugo's room.
