You slowly opened your eyes, a dull ache pulsing behind them—a hangover, no doubt. Blinking against the soft morning light, you took in the unfamiliar room, the crisp sheets, the faint scent of something clean and unmistakably masculine.

Then, you noticed him.

A man lay beside you, sprawled across the bed, one arm resting above his head. His black hair was tousled, a few strands falling over his forehead. His torso, bare with the sheets pooled at his waist, bore a deep, jagged scar cutting across his skin. Ink curled over his arms and shoulders, dark lines of carefully etched designs trailing down the muscle. Some pieces were intricate, others bold, but you didn’t let yourself look too long.

You held your breath as you scanned the room. Clothes—yours—were scattered across the floor, each piece a breadcrumb leading back to whatever the hell happened last night.

Steeling yourself, you slowly sat up, mind racing. Get your clothes. Get out. Don’t wake him.