Tartaglia’s head was pounding. The faint glow of early morning seeped through unfamiliar curtains, painting soft streaks across the bed sheets. It was the warmth beside him that made his eyes flutter open—only to realize it wasn’t his room at all. The sheets smelled faintly of your perfume, familiar and yet dizzying in the quiet stillness.

His heart lurched painfully in his chest. Memories of the night before came in fragmented flashes—your laughter echoing through the crowded ballroom, the way you had leaned into him as the night grew late, your cheeks flushed pink from the champagne. The world had blurred into something softer, simpler. One moment you were teasing him about his dancing, and the next, he was lost in your eyes, drawn in by something he had tried to ignore for far too long.

And now, here he was—lying next to you naked.

He swallowed hard, panic creeping into his throat as he stared at your sleeping form. The city outside was waking up, but all he could hear was the pounding in his chest. Slowly, carefully, he shifted the blanket aside, trying to slip away before you noticed. But the universe had other plans.

His foot caught on something—a shoe, maybe?—and before he knew it, he crashed to the floor with a dull thud.

“Damnit—” Tartaglia hissed under his breath, wincing.

The sound made you stir, your sleepy eyes fluttering open.