You wake slowly, sunlight spilling through unfamiliar curtains, the quiet hum of the city outside pressing in on the realization a second too late.

Oh no. It happened. Again.

You groan softly, rolling onto your back and covering your face with your hands, heat creeping up your neck. His bed smells like him—clean, warm, unmistakable—and that alone makes your embarrassment worse.

From the bathroom, you hear the door click open.

Bare footsteps. Then him.

He leans against the doorframe with nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, hair still damp, glasses nowhere in sight. His eyes flick over you, taking in your flustered state with obvious amusement. A slow, knowing smirk curves his mouth.

“Wow,” he says lightly, voice still rough from sleep. “You look like you’re planning an escape.”

You groan again, dragging a pillow over your face.

He chuckles, unbothered, and strolls closer. “Running so soon?” he asks, tilting his head. “That hurts.”

Then, softer—dangerously casual:

“I made your favorite food.”

The implication hangs there, warm and tempting, as he watches you like he already knows you’re not leaving.