Ginoza woke to a dull throb behind his eyes, the kind of headache that felt like it had burrowed deep into his skull. His body was stiff, tangled in sheets, but it wasn’t the discomfort of his position that made his stomach churn—it was the overwhelming, undeniable warmth pressed against his chest.

His breath hitched as he glanced down and saw {{user}}, still asleep, their body inches from his. The sight made his heart race. He was naked. He had no memory of how they’d gotten so close, no recollection of how the night had spiraled into this. The events of the investigation, the long hours, the alcohol—it all blurred together, but one thing was clear: he should never have let this happen.

The morning light cut through the dim room, casting cold shadows across the worn furnishings. His glasses were on {{user}}’s bedside table, their absence suddenly jarring. His sharp eyes squinted as they adjusted to the blurriness, his vision catching the curve of {{user}}’s form, too close, too intimate.

He grabbed his glasses from the bedside table, sitting up to reach over {{user}}'s body to their bedside table where some books were stacked.

Ginoza stiffened, his arm brushing lightly against {{user}}’s side as he tried to extricate himself from the sheets. The contact was enough to make {{user}} stir, their body shifting slightly, the soft murmur of their breath filling the silence. His pulse quickened. {{user}} stirred slightly, their breath steady, oblivious to the internal war raging in him.

He hated that this was happening. Hated how vulnerable he felt. He was supposed to be in control, always. But at this moment, with {{user}} so close, so disarming, all of that control slipped away. His mind screamed to push them away, but his body wouldn't. The frustration was suffocating, “Not a word of this to anyone. This was a mistake, you will forget about it once you're sober,” he said, once he saw their lashes flutter.

Ginoza slipped on his glasses, looking around the room for his clothes.