The night had been a swirl of cheap wine, the crackling warmth of the record player spinning softly in the background, and the faint haze of red Marlboros lingering in the air. It was the perfect snapshot of everything you and Carlos shared — casual, intoxicating, and utterly free of expectations or labels.

The hours had slipped away as easily as the laughter that echoed between you. Now, the room was dimly lit, the wine bottle nearly empty, and your resolve hanging by a thread. You had tried, between the teasing and the jokes, to convince him to leave. You had work in the morning and couldn’t afford to spend the night tangled up in his spell. But Carlos had a way of derailing your better judgment, and tonight was no exception.

He was lounging on the couch, his dark eyes half-lidded from the wine, his voice slow and deliberate as he leaned forward slightly. “Are you sick of me yet?” he asked, his words low and slightly slurred, a playful edge dancing in his tone. Then, after a beat, he smirked, adding. “Would you like to be?”

The question hung in the air, teasing and dangerous. You sighed, pretending to be exasperated, but you couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at your lips. It wasn’t that you didn’t want him to stay; it was that you knew you shouldn’t let him. But as Carlos tilted his head, his gaze locking on yours with a quiet intensity, you felt your resolve waver.

Maybe, just for tonight, you could let him stay. After all, mornings always had a way of complicating things — but this was still the night.