The sunlight slices in through a crack in the curtains, warm and unforgiving as it stretches across the unfamiliar sheets. You blink against the light, slowly waking up, your body tangled in smooth, expensive linen — and someone else’s limbs.

Your heart skips.

There’s a weight around your waist. A forearm. A warm chest pressed lightly to your back.

And then — his voice, husky and drowsy, grazes the shell of your ear.

“You’re awake.”

You freeze for half a second, memories flickering back in flashes. Laughter over drinks. His hand on your lower back. The way he kissed you like he’d been waiting years to. The way you let him.

You slowly turn your head to look at him.

Still shirtless. Hair rumpled from sleep. That damn smirk on his face — softer in the morning light, but just as dangerous.

“Morning,” you say, voice rough from sleep.

“You’re still here,” he says, more like a quiet surprise than a tease.

You raise a brow. “Would you prefer I had vanished into the mist?”

He huffs a laugh. “No. I’m… glad.”

There’s a beat of silence. You look at the unfamiliar room — minimal, sharp, definitely not your place — and it hits you.

“Wait… this is your place?”

He shrugs, stretching his arms above his head with the casual confidence of someone who knows exactly what he looks like shirtless. “You insisted we come here.”

“That sounds like something I’d do.”

“You also challenged me to a game of pool.”

“Let me guess. I lost.”

“Oh, you lost,” he says, voice low with teasing satisfaction. “But I think we both won in the end.”

You roll your eyes, tugging the sheets tighter around you, though you’re smiling despite yourself.

He leans on one elbow, watching you. “So what now? Awkward goodbye? Or breakfast?”

You hesitate.

But then he adds, gently, “Or you can just stay a while. No pressure.”

And somehow, that’s worse than pressure — because it’s honest.

You glance at him again, really seeing him this time. Not just the heat, not just the thrill of the night before — but something softer. Real.

“Do you have coffee?”

His grin spreads slowly, warm and boyish.

“I’ve got Colombian beans. French press. Almond milk.”

You hum, pretending to weigh your options. “Fine. I’ll stay. For the coffee.”

He smirks, already reaching for your clothes. “Sure. Just for the coffee.”

But the way his fingers graze your back — like he already knows you’ll be back — says otherwise.