The pounding in your head was enough to wake you from your slumber, the memories rushing back with it. Drinking a little too much at the pub, flirting with a freakishly tall man with crazy curls, stumbling back to his apartment with hands in each others hair.

Now it’s almost noon, and Andrew is still sleeping soundly, face pressed lazily into the pillow. Reluctantly, you shifted out of bed as stealthily as possible, attempting to navigate your way to the bathroom. The nausea hit rather quickly, your stomach churning at the concoction of starvation and alcohol. You knew you should’ve eaten something before you left.

Your knees dug into the linoleum, floor head in your hands as you leaned over the toilet. Not necessarily the most flattering look. In attempt to distract yourself from the fact that the room was practically spinning, you nosied around a little, convincing yourself that it wasn’t an invasion of privacy considering you’d been buried in his sheets mere hours before.

The state of men’s bathrooms never failed to baffle you. Beard trimmings still lingering in the sink, toilet paper resting anywhere but on the holder. Two in one shampoo? For his curls? Tragic.

“You alright?” The sudden voice scared your heart out of its rhythmic beat. How could someone so tall be so light on his feet? Christ.

“I don’t think inspecting my shampoo is going to help you. I can check if I have some ibuprofen laying around?”