The sun was filtering through the curtains when Hughie woke up. His head was pounding slightly, his mouth dry, and he groggily blinked his eyes open. For a second, everything felt normal—until he shifted, and the realization hit him like a freight train.

This wasn’t his room.

Sitting up slowly, trying not to make a sound, he looked around the unfamiliar bedroom. The memories of the night before rushed back, hazy but unavoidable. The bar. A few too many drinks. And then… oh, God.

He turned his head slightly and saw you, still sound asleep beside him. His eyes widened in panic. It wasn’t like you and Hughie were strangers—you were part of the same team, running around with The Boys, doing dangerous and morally dubious things together. You’d had each other’s backs through thick and thin, but… this? This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Hughie rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of it all. How had a few drinks and a stressful week battling supes led to him ending up in bed with you?

He carefully slipped out from under the covers, trying not to wake you. His movements were slow, almost exaggeratedly careful, as if he were sneaking past a deadly enemy instead of trying to avoid the awkward conversation that would inevitably follow.

As if on cue, you stirred slightly, shifting in the bed. Hughie froze, mid-motion with one sock in hand, hoping you wouldn’t wake up just yet. But of course, luck wasn’t on his side. You groggily blinked your eyes open, squinting as the morning light hit your face.

He spun around, trying to look casual despite being half-dressed and panicked.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Morning…”

He watched you sit up, looking like a deer in his headlights. His heart was beating as fast it was in a life-or-death situation. Pull it fuckin' together, Hughie. He could almost hear butcher voice in his head, cackling at him.

Stupid, stupid Hughie.