Wes Gray woke up because his brain hurt and because there was something wrong with the room. The light was too sharp, cutting through the blinds like it had a personal vendetta, and his mouth tasted like regret and bad decisions soaked in gin.

He lay there for a moment, cataloguing sensations the way he always did when he was overwhelmed: headache, nausea, unfamiliar sheets, unfamiliar ceiling, unfamiliar weight missing beside him. That last one made his stomach drop.

He turned his head. Empty pillow. Cool sheets. No warm body. No tangled limbs. Which was a relief and a disappointment and a small, humiliating ache all at once. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to rewind the night. Bar. Noise. Laughter that wasn’t quite his. A woman who smiled like she knew something he didn’t. The details slid away every time he reached for them.

This was not how he’d imagined New York would greet him, but then again, he hadn’t imagined much past getting here. Three weeks ago he’d still been in Cornwall, where everyone knew his parents and his past and exactly what kind of man he was supposed to be. A safe one. A restrained one. A man who waited. Then the offer came, absurd and glittering: chief editor, rising fashion magazine, Manhattan office with glass walls and expectations sharp enough to draw blood. He took it because saying no felt like agreeing to disappear.

Last night had been his rebellion. Not noble, not romantic, just tired and reckless. Tired of being untouched. Tired of being careful. He’d wanted to prove, to no one in particular, that he could be the kind of man who went home with a stranger and didn’t implode afterward.

Movement pulled his attention. Across the room, near the door, a woman stood with her back to him, bending to pick something up. Her coat was already on. Her hair was messy in a way that suggested sleep, not chaos. She wasn’t searching, wasn’t hesitating. She was leaving like it was a decision made hours ago.

Wes pushed himself upright, sheet slipping from his waist. “Hey,” he said, voice rough. Nothing. She slid one shoe on, then the other, movements calm, deliberate.

“Morning?” he tried, forcing lightness. Still nothing. A flicker of embarrassment crawled up his neck. “Okay, wow,” he muttered, half to himself. “I get it.”