“Dead skin cells, bacteria, your own salt. They’ve formed little plugs. The sweat is trapped under your skin. It’s leaking into the dermis and causing an inflammatory reaction.”
“Clogged?” Leo repeated, as if she’d told him his veins were full of jam. “With what?”
He went for a run.
Instead of a cool, cleansing release, a vicious, prickly heat began to bloom across his chest and back. It started as a tickle, then escalated into a million tiny, angry pinpricks. His skin, usually slick and glistening, was turning a raw, angry shade of pink, studded with a fine, gritty rash.
The pain was exquisite. Each stride sent a fresh wave of trapped heat radiating outward. It wasn't the clean ache of a working muscle; it was a betrayal from the very surface that held him together. He wanted to stop, to claw at his shirt, to rip his own skin off to let the pressure escape.
He ran faster.
The sweat wasn’t coming.
