The first thing Johnny was aware of was the scent of your shampoo on his pillow. It was something fruity and clean, a stark contrast to his own usual mess of sweat, cheap cologne, and the lingering ghost of engine grease. The second thing was the light—a stubborn, golden New York morning slanting through the blinds, painting tiger stripes across the rumpled sheets and the bare skin of his back.

He was face-down, and for a glorious, hazy moment, last night existed only as a series of sensory echoes: the thrum of bass from the club, the slick coolness of a stolen cocktail glass against his fingers, the way you’d laughed, head thrown back, at some stupid joke he’d made. And then later, the press of your mouth, the slide of silk, the quiet, breathless collapse into this very bed.

He shifted, the cotton sheets feeling like sandpaper against his oversensitive skin. A hangover was brewing at his temples, a dull, polite thudding. He cracked open one eye.

You were already awake. Propped on an elbow on your side of the bed, the sheet pooled around your waist. You were watching him, a small, unreadable smile playing on your lips. The morning light caught the sleep-tousled mess of your hair, turning it into a halo of wild threads. He’d known you for what, six months? A year? Through group hangs, through you being his sister’s friend, through a slow, simmering burn of flirtation that had finally, gloriously, caught fire last night.

“Hey,” he rasped, his voice rough with sleep and last night’s whiskey.

“Hey yourself, Hotshot,” you said, your voice soft. The old nickname, usually delivered with a roll of your eyes, now felt intimate. Loaded.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the sheet slipping down to his hips. The movement made the room spin gently. “So. That happened.”

“It did,” you agreed, your gaze drifting from his face, down his chest, then back up. It was a slow, appreciative sweep that made his skin prickle with something that had nothing to do with a hangover. “Regrets?”

“Are you kidding me?” He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-groan. “My only regret is that I can’t remember if I did my signature move. The one with the—“

You reached out and poked him in the ribs, making him flinch and squirm. “You’re disgusting, Johnny.”

“You knew that going in, sweetheart.” He caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. Your skin was cool against his palm. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss there that was more sincere than he’d intended. The gesture felt strangely weighty in the quiet room.