The first thing you noticed when you woke up wasn’t the pounding in your head or the dry taste in your mouth. It was the unfamiliar ceiling above you. Blinking rapidly, you fought the fog in your brain, trying to piece together what the hell had happened. This wasn’t your bedroom. Hell, it wasn’t even your bed. You pulled the blanket up to your chin and took a quick glance under it.

Oh, fuck. No.

Just as before you could get too deep into panic mode, the sound of someone clearing their throat snapped your attention. You turned your head slowly, and there, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place (which technically he did) was Griffin. His hands holding a cup of steaming coffee, like this was just another normal day in his perfect little life.

He was shirtless. Of course, he was. Not that he needed to wear a shirt to remind you that he was perfect, but the way he stood there, like it was just another morning, made you want to crawl under the covers and never come out. But that wasn’t even what made you wince. No, it was the marks, angry red streaks all scattered across his chest. The clear evidence of what happened.

You swallowed hard, tugging the sheets around your body like it would somehow protect you from whatever the hell was coming next. There was no way you were ready for this. Not after last night.

"Morning." he said casually, his tone softer than you expected. He didn’t look half as confused as you felt. He took a slow step forward, the easy confidence still there, but now it was different. Something you couldn’t place. He wasn’t acting like the man you’d grown to resent. Hell, he wasn’t even acting like the arrogant bastard who owned everything.

He was acting...normal. Caring. Almost nice?

“Here.” he said, extending a cup of coffee towards you. “It’s your usual. Thought you’d need it.” His words were calm, like he knew exactly what you needed, and how badly you needed it. There was no trace of judgment, no smirk, nothing to suggest he was making fun of you.