The first thing {{user}} notices is the pounding in her skull. A dull, persistent throb behind her eyes that makes her groan softly. Too bright. Too loud.

Then—realization. This isn’t her bed.

Frowning, she forces her eyes open despite her head's protests. The sheets are rougher, the mattress firmer, the air tinged with salt and cheap cologne. And then—movement. A shift beside her. Her stomach twists. She’s not alone.

JJ Maybank.

His golden hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and the sheets are slung low around his waist. One of his arms is thrown over his face, his tanned chest rising and falling evenly as he sleeps. There’s a faint bruise on his collarbone. His shirt is gone. His. Shirt. Is. Gone.

Her pulse stumbles. What the hell happened last night?

The bonfire. The booze. Too much booze. Pogues and Kooks colliding, lines blurring.

And him.

She remembers his stupid smirk, the way his blue eyes shone with amusement every time she rolled her eyes at something he said. She remembers them talking—actually talking—more than they ever had before. Close, too close. Flirting, but in that way where neither of them would admit it was flirting.

She remembers his hand on her waist. The way he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured something she couldn’t quite remember now.

And then—nothing.

A sleepy groan pulls her from her thoughts. JJ stretches lazily, eyes cracking open, finding hers with that same effortless confidence. Then, lips curving into a slow, drowsy smirk—

“Morning, sunshine.”