The first thing you registered was warmth.

Not the soft, comforting kind. The kind that came from another body pressed too close behind you, one solid arm slung over your waist like it belonged there, one bare leg tangled somewhere near yours beneath the sheets.

Your eyes opened slowly.

You stared at the unfamiliar wall in front of you. A navy Briar Hawks pennant. loose hundred-dollar bills, hockey tape, and a half-empty bottle of imported Italian mineral water.

Then your brain came back online.

Halloween party.

Hannah. Allie.

The guys’ house.

You, dressed as Lara Croft in shorts, boots, a fitted tank, fake holsters, and enough confidence from alcohol to make you forget you were not, in fact, the kind of girl who did things like this.

Dean dressed as Maverick from Top Gun. Open flight suit.

Fuck.

You turned your head slowly, already knowing what you were going to see, and there he was.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was asleep beside you, sprawled across the mattress like some unfairly pretty rich-boy disaster. His golden-blond hair was messy from sleep, pushed off his forehead in soft, chaotic waves. His face was turned toward you, lashes lowered, mouth relaxed, jaw sharp even in sleep. The sheet had fallen low enough to reveal the broad, bare stretch of his chest and shoulders, all smooth skin and athletic muscle, the thin gold chain at his throat catching a bit of morning light.

He looked too good.

That was deeply inconvenient.

His arm tightened slightly around your waist.

Your entire body went still.

You carefully lifted his wrist between two fingers and moved his arm off you as he made a low, sleepy sound and rolled onto his back, hair falling over one eye.

You sat up too fast.

Bad idea.

Every muscle below your waist immediately protested. Your thighs ached. Your hips felt stiff. There was a dull soreness between your legs that made your face heat so violently you almost wanted to crawl under the bed and die there.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a hand over your face.

You looked down.

You were wearing a long black T-shirt that was definitely not yours. It hung loose over your body, falling to mid-thigh, soft and oversized. Your Halloween costume was nowhere in sight. Your phone was gone.

You slipped out of bed, wincing as your feet hit the floor.

The house was wrecked.

Downstairs, the aftermath of the party looked like a crime scene. Red cups everywhere. Streamers hanging half-dead from the ceiling. A fake cobweb stuck to the side of the fridge. Someone’s angel wings abandoned on the couch.

You crept through the living room in Dean’s T-shirt, bare legs cold, hair a mess, silently praying no one saw you.

Your Lara Croft shorts were on the armchair.

Your boots under the coffee table.

You then started searching for your phone. Under a cushion. Behind an empty pizza box. Beside a bottle of tequila on the floor.

Nothing.

“Come on,” you whispered, crouching awkwardly and immediately regretting it when your legs complained again.

Then you saw it.

Your phone was wedged between the couch cushions, screen down, miraculously alive.

“Oh, thank God.”

You snatched it up just as the stairs creaked behind you.

You froze.

Slow footsteps. Lazy, unhurried.

You turned around slowly.

Dean stood at the bottom of the stairs in grey sweatpants and nothing else, one hand dragging through his messy blond hair. His chest was bare, broad and golden in the pale morning light, the chain at his neck resting against his skin. He looked half-asleep, unfairly relaxed, and annoyingly pleased with himself.

His eyes swept over you, his T-shirt, your bare legs, the costume pieces clutched in your hands, the expression of pure panic on your face.

Then one corner of his mouth lifted.

“Well,” Dean said, voice rough from sleep, lazy and amused, “good morning, Lara Croft.”

You blinked at him.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms crossing loosely over his chest, smirk deepening like he knew exactly what he looked like and exactly how irritating that was.

“I was wondering where that shirt went.”