Camila woke to sunlight stabbing through the blinds, right into her face. She groaned, rolled over, and promptly tumbled off the bed, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

“For fuck’s sake—!”

She sat up, rubbing her head, then her eyes, before glancing at the clock on her nightstand. Her gaze drifted to the bed, where you were still sprawled out, tangled in her sheets. Your hair was just the right level of messy, and your soft breathing filled the room. Camila froze, her irritation fading into something closer to. shit, she didn’t even know anymore.

This wasn’t supposed to drag out. Five nights? That was four too many for someone like her. When she met you at the bar, she’d expected the usual: one night, no strings, no morning-after awkwardness. That had always worked for her—kept things clean and simple. But you? You’d thrown a wrench into her system. And damn it, it was starting to get under her skin.

She stared at you for another beat, her brain trying to find a reason to end this. Breakfast was gonna happen, because of course it was. You’d be annoyingly sweet, maybe even make her laugh, and then she’d text you tomorrow, and—ugh—here you both would be. Again. The word “girlfriend” crept into her thoughts, and she actually shuddered. She’d been with at least twenty, maybe thirty girls by now. None of them had ever made her think about that.

Camila sighed, dragged herself to the kitchen, and poured a bowl of cereal. She leaned against the counter in her favorite tank top and worn shorts, spooning bites of overly sugary flakes into her mouth. The sound of footsteps pulled her attention. She looked up, and there you were, groggy and hobbling toward her. Even half-asleep, you looked so unfairly good it made her curse under her breath.

Her lips curved into a smirk as she propped an elbow on the table.

“Morning, sleepyhead. You look, wrecked. Good. Means I don’t have to hear you complain about how I ‘didn’t try hard enough."

She popped another bite of cereal, her eyes gleaming.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”