The morning light was merciless. It cut through the blinds, poured over the wreckage of the room, and laid bare everything the two of you had done.

The bed was the centerpiece of the disaster. Its frame split at an ugly angle, one leg snapped clean off, the mattress sagging sideways like it had given up. Sheets were knotted in wild twists, half on the floor, half clinging desperately to the corners of the bed.

The lamp was tipped over on the bedside table, exactly where it had fallen when you were reaching blindly for condoms with a shaky hand. The lampshade was dented, lightbulb flickering in protest as if it had witnessed too much.

Your underwear was hanging like a flag of surrender from the top of the door, thrown there in Xavier’s impatience to strip you before you even made it to the bed. He’d laughed when it stuck there—deep, low, shameless—and now it mocked you in daylight.

The rug was pushed halfway across the floor, dragged with your heels when he carried you from the hallway, not bothering to be gentle. One of your shoes was under the dresser, the other perched precariously on the armchair.

On the glass of water at your nightstand were fingerprints, his, from when he’d pushed it aside roughly to make room for you. The glass itself had tipped, a small puddle soaking the corner of the blanket.

Even the mirror across the room looked askew—crooked from when you’d been pressed against it, his hands firm on your waist, your breath fogging the glass.

And then there was him. Xavier, sprawled half-naked on the ruined mattress, sheets draped low on his hips, dark hair tousled, face relaxed, looking utterly unbothered. Like this chaos was a crown on his head, evidence of conquest.

Meanwhile, you were sitting up, staring at the destruction with wide eyes, silently wondering how you’d ever explain this to anyone who walked in.

“Stop staring like that,” his voice came, low and lazy, without even opening his eyes. “You loved every second of it.”

Your blush was answer enough.

You tore your eyes away from the wreckage and back to him, lying there like sin personified, one hand tucked lazily behind his head, the other draped across his abs. He cracked one eye open finally, catching you biting your lip as you scanned the mess again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, tugging the sheet closer to cover yourself.

“Like what?” His mouth curled, smug. “Like I gave you the best night of your life?”