The view is like you’re up in the sky, sitting on par with the clouds, and you don’t know what you’re doing. There’s a rockstar—a certified platinum-selling, messy-haired, black-nailed, egotistical rockstar—in the bed somewhere behind you and you’re wearing his shirt. It smells like him, too. Cigarettes and sweat and the expensive cologne. You’re sure you smell like that now, too.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, the rising sun setting your silhouette aflame as you gently press the pads of your fingertips into the bruises on your neck. His mop of black hair is stark against the pristine white bedding and you pick out the bridge of his nose, half-buried in a pillow nicer than you’d ever known existed before.

Sirius gives a moan, a sound of deep upset that he has to meet yet another day with clothes on, and buries his face fully into the plush pillow. His dark voice reaches you in an unintelligible garble. He turns dramatically onto his back, tossing the blankets back as he goes. You try not to look at him. He’s naked, staring at the ceiling, and his lovely, tattooed thighs are begging to be looked at. “I said,” he enunciates in that snobbish accent you wish you didn’t love, “Staring is creepy.”