Your head is pounding, every throb echoing against your skull like a drum. The air is thick with the mingling scents of stale alcohol and smoke, heavy enough to make your stomach twist. You blink against the morning light, trying to piece together fragments of last night, but everything after the work party blurs into a hazy reel of laughter, music, and too many drinks.

It’s only when you shift slightly that you notice the weight of fabric that isn’t yours. The oversized shirt draped over your body is unfamiliar, soft against your skin, and far too big to belong to you. That realization pulls your gaze to the side where Takuma lies, propped lazily on an elbow, his dark hair mussed and his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it at the office. His eyes trace over you like he’s memorizing every detail, every mark, every proof of what the two of you shared.

You don’t need a mirror to know what he’s looking at. Your skin is scattered with faint bruises and love bites, a roadmap of indulgence you never thought you’d allow yourself. Your body aches in ways that confirm just how far you both let things go last night.

Takuma’s lips curve into a slow smile as his fingers trail along the plush of your thigh, the touch feather-light but deliberate. “Morning, gorgeous,” he murmurs, his voice still husky with sleep, carrying that playful warmth you’ve only caught glimpses of during long shifts together. His thumb presses against your skin as he tilts his head, studying your face with something between fondness and mischief.

“How’s the hangover, {{user}}?