POV: Aurora
Waking up is like coming up from underwater.
White ceiling. Warm light. It's not my room.
I sit up suddenly. Bad idea. My head is spinning and my stomach is protesting.
I'm in Noir's room. The "safe" one.
I'm wearing my shorts and T-shirt. No one else's clothes. I take a quick look at myself: no strange bruises, no marks on my skin that I don't recognize. Just a persistent blush on my chest and neck.
I breathe a little easier.
Next to the bed, on the chair, is Dante.
Dante is sleeping, half bent over, his head fallen forward, one arm crossed over his chest. His shirt is wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up, his beard a little more pronounced. It's clear he didn't move much during the night.
And then comes the second blow: I vaguely remember leaning against something firm and warm. A chest. A shirt. A voice saying, "Breathe with me."
Was it a dream? Or was I stuck to him like that for hours?
I swallow.
"Dante," I whisper.
