The morning light crept into the hotel suite in thin golden stripes, slipping past the half-drawn curtains. I blinked slowly, at first unsure where I was, the faint hum of the city below mixing with the soft, steady sound of Hugo's breathing. Then the memories of last night came back in a rush — the food, the laughter that had started to creep back between us, the way my mint pheromone had stirred again and how I'd ended up falling asleep pressed against his chest.
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. The sheets smelled faintly of lime and mint, a scent that felt like a small, private world we'd built. Hugo still slept beside me, one arm sprawled across the mattress as if even in sleep he didn't want to lose contact. His hair was a little messy, the sharp planes of his face softened by sleep. There was something disarming about seeing him like this — not the famous Hugo from the screen, not the protective man fans always photographed, but just Hugo.
