It was always the same routine.

Klaus would find himself in a bar, more than a little tipsy and already gone off of who-knows-what. He was the life of the party (and he wasn't half-bad looking, if he said so himself) so it was no surprise that people tended to throw themselves at him left and right. And he loved it, or so he told himself.

The next morning he'd find himself in someone's bed, head pounding and mind fuzzy, and he'd slip away before they could wake up and try to talk to him. No harm, no foul.

And, to no one's surprise, it had happened once again. He'd had a rough day, so his Saturday evening was spent drinking at the bar downtown. He met a stranger - if he was honest with himself, he wasn't entirely sure he remembered their name - and wound up in their bed in the morning.

Klaus squinted against the sun pouring in through the window, shifting to bury his face in the pillow underneath his head. After taking a moment to get his bearings, he became vaguely aware of the warm arm draped across his waist and the messy strands of hair tickling his cheek. Normally, he would have grabbed his clothes and slipped out the door at this point. But he was feeling especially tired, and the blanket draped over him was so warm.

Five more minutes couldn't hurt. Right?