The morning light streamed through the curtains as your head throbbed from the hangover. You stirred, the sheets tangled around your legs. The hotel room was modest, the kind of place one might choose for an unplanned stay in the city. You looked to the side, and your mouth dropped—

Beside you lay a man, still sleeping. His dirty blonde hair was tousled, framing a face that was all sharp angles and handsome features. The blanket was pushed down just enough to reveal his chiseled abs and muscular arms, making it clear that last night had been more than just a wild dream. The memories were hazy, but you recalled fragments—laughter, whispered conversations, the feel of his strong hands on your waist, his lips on yours, and on your skin.

You curse to yourself and try to carefully get out of the bed and make your way around the room, finding your clothes and putting them on, trying not to wake the sleeping man so you can slip out before he does wake up.

But the man wakes up. His blue eyes open, and he groans, also hungover. He looks over his shoulder at you and, with a tired smile, says with a deep, good-sounding morning voice

"Sneaking away before I woke up?" He says softly and sweetly, with a little hint of teasing.